They Say His Eyes Are Black As Void And Her Hands Glow Like Moonlight
by Starlight Lion
Summary: Corvo wants to go home and see his daughter again. His Messengers want to complete the mission and get the hell out. Harlan wants Garrett to suffer, and Basso wants to help Garrett recover. Emily wants The City to finally surrender. Garrett just wants it all to stop. And the gods? It's never safe to question what they want.
1. Prologue - Focus

**Welcome one and all to the thing that is distracting me from my upcoming Voltron series (A Druid's Curse), because I love Thief (2014) for all it's MANY faults and I love Garrett and also Corvo is a badass and I need the interactions. Look. I don't know what happened. I'm sorry. I just can't help myself.**

 **I make no promises with this fic! It'll keep going until I finally get more invested in writing ADC and it'll come alone as it does. I don't have many solid plans - a few, but not many - for this, it's mostly stress-relief and wanting more but not having any more so having to make more myself. You all know how it is.**

 **Prologue is short of course, but the next chapter is already being written! Crossposted to AO3. As always, I recommend reading my stuff on there, it's better edited and formatted.**

 **Ciao!**

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The flames inside the Clocktower had burned down to nothing. Usually, Garrett made certain that at least the embers remained - it got cold easily in the unfinished structure, and while his leathers offered some protection from it, and he had warm blankets should the need truly arise, fire was his preferred method of warmth. The flickering light that sometimes seeped out only helped fuel the fear of ghosts that helped protect him.

Tonight, he let them die. A dull ache nested in his skull, coiled behind his right eye. He'd gotten used to the constant pain, gotten used to accommodating for the lapses it caused in judgement, gotten used to slowing down to ensure he wasn't missing things. Or seeing things.

Even so, it was particularly bad tonight. It had been a year since he'd sunk the Dawn's Light, a year over which he'd continued to hope that it would ease, that with Erin gone and the Primal… wherever it had ended up, he could move away from the visions and the headaches and the bullshit.

It was, as he should have known, a vain thing to hope.

The City had slowly started to recover from the attempted coup, as the Gloom ended seemingly overnight and its citizens stopped dying. Well, died less, anyway. It would have recovered much faster if not for the martial noose that still choked it.

With the Baron dead, Thief-Taker General Harlan had seen fit to take control via what remained of the Watch and set himself as a martial ruler. Conscript notices had gone out to bolster the ranks of what was now little more than a personal army. Those conscripts that had gone unfilled had been slashed off the General's roster with blood instead. Garrett had stayed in his tower, taken a good long break to let himself heal, and watched the City surrender to Harlan's boot on its throat.

In the cold, Garrett flexed his left hand. It ached too - less noticeable than his eye, and thus the ache wasn't exactly _pain_ \- but he stretched and flexed all the same, working out the stiffness. His gloves sat on the bed beside him, unclipped. Even now, studying the thick, white scar left behind, Garrett felt relief boil in his chest. He'd been lucky - he'd been so lucky. If the General had shot him with any of his explosive bolts - well, he'd probably just be dead in that case, so maybe that wasn't worth worrying about. But if the General had used a normal crossbow instead of his wrist-mounted one, then the bolt would have been twice the size; even with the miniaturised bolt, Garrett had been lucky to escape fractures. It had hurt enough that he suspected the bone had been scraped, but his metacarpals had held, the bolt slipping between his index and middle.

And even so, after the agony had subsided, Garrett had lost feeling in his fingers for a while. It had been hard to worry about, at the time, in the middle of disaster and hunting for Erin and figuring out what the hell the Primal was supposed to be. Afterwards, he'd worried sick.

He was lucky.

Months he'd spent defaulting to easy jobs, choosing quantity over quality, just so he could focus on healing properly. Boring, dredged months - but Garrett knew he couldn't risk worsening the injury. It had to heal right, which meant it had to heal slow. A thief's hands were his life.

He flexed the hand. The stiffness was starting to ease, movement and heat loosening the tendons and giving him back full motility. He'd come to accept it; as long as he kept care of it, his hand had healed good as new. It was another thing he had to keep track of, another thing to worry about in the grand scheme, but it could have been much worse. He was lucky.

Sighing softly, Garrett looked up and studied the inside of the Clocktower. The walls stared back, a dull off-grey. It was unnatural, in the darkness, both shadow and light lost to him. Everything had a strange, flat quality to it, as if it wasn't quite real. It almost looked like he was living inside one of Erin's drawings.

And the flames were dead. Even Garrett's night vision wasn't that good - he should have been navigating by memory, by the faint blurred edges of solid mass and the echo of empty space. In the dark, he saw more by the shadows things made than the things themselves. But this-

It was time to admit it. There was something wrong with him.

Closing his eyes, Garrett focused on the ache in his temple, trying to feel out the tendrils of Primal energy. It had always felt alien, in the past - Erin's attacks and visions, the energy that had erupted around them at the Baron's Manor, on Dawn's Light. Even holding the fragments of the Stone had caused the same feeling. A creeping sensation, slow and wet, like whale oil oozing under his skin. The faint clicking in his ears.

When he felt it this time, he did his best not to recoil. It pulsed softly, the pain and the Primal, and he felt the liquid feeling seep out. It was like bleeding from his eye, but when he automatically touched his face, his fingers came off dry. Unease bubbled in his gut, anxiety and fear mixed with the strange hollow sensation that always came with using the Primal's power. It tasted of poppies, in the back of his throat.

Garrett pushed it away, tried to unfocus, tried to lock the energy back up in his eye where it- didn't belong, but had come to stay. He knew better than to think he could be rid of it entirely. If it had remained despite the ritual to draw the Primal out of Erin, then it would remain forever. But still, Garrett ignored the pain as it crept down his neck and bloomed across his shoulders, flowing down his left arm to his hand. He might not like it overly much, but the abilities that came with his little sliver of Primal were - while limited - incredibly useful tools. If only he could keep control of it.

He didn't like to be so reliant on anything. Tools could be lost. Even his eye could be taken. If he relied on them too heavily, then he'd be defenceless without them. His hands, his wit, and a shadow were all he should ever truly need.

When he finally opened his eyes again, whole body aching with the tension and oily slick feeling of the Primal, the Clocktower's greyscale wall stared back. It didn't quite look real, picked out without shadow or light, like one of Erin's drawings.

Garrett lay back on his bed and stared up at the clock mechanisms, steadily ticking away. It was time to admit it.

There was something wrong with him.


	2. Teeth Are Worthless If They Don't Bite

**Chapter one! Turns out I needed to write this and just more of this so... I guess this is my life now. As always, crossposted from AO3.**

 **I don't know why this copy-paste into Doc Manager retained all my italics and formatting but the last one didn't. This site is so fucked ah haha. Anyway, enjoy! (I immediately started the next chapter because I have no self-control and an obsessive personality let's go).**

 **In which Garrett knows he needs to stop.**

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Mismatched eyes scanned the small leaf of paper, getting narrower and narrower the longer they read. After pausing at the end for a second that went on too long, they lifted to meet Basso's.

"Don't gimme that look. What? Ya don't gotta take the job, it's just something someone wanted done." Basso's hands danced through the air as he spoke, emphasising.

Well. Danced was perhaps too gracious a word. Paddled, maybe.

Garrett set down the paper and folded his arms. "I steal objects, Basso, not people."

Basso blinked. "Eh? Oh, ya mean- Fuck, Garrett, I wouldn't ask ya to kidnap nobody. _Jessamine_ is the name of the dagger."

One eyebrow quirked. "A dagger with a name? Bit strange for something that pretentious to be in the Old Quarter." Strange was an understatement - _suspicious_ was more like it. Few people named weapons that weren't ceremonial or otherwise somehow remarkable; even fewer let them get lost in the dregs of poverty. Despite that, his fingers itched - Garrett wanted to take the job despite his misgivings. It was too suspicious, too likely to be a trap - a named weapon! And with a highborn sounding name like that - but he could already see where he'd put it amongst his collections.

A quick shake of the head. If he took the job, he'd not be keeping it anyway. That in mind, it wasn't worth the very likely trap.

"I dunno, Garrett, the guy who wanted it said it was an heirloom or something. Fuck if I care - he offered more coin than you're _worth_ to go'n get it. Weird though, he did look like he coulda gone and got it himself." Basso turned and gave Gwendolyn a pet. The rook warbled softly, but didn't bite. _Kinder than her predecessor._ Garrett followed the movement, eyes narrow. Basso rarely got spooked, but Garrett had known him for long enough to recognise an anxiety tick when he saw it. "Shoulda seen his mask."

Garrett took note of that, already bidding farewell to the job. "More coin than I'm worth, Basso? Are you putting a price on my life?" Almost teasing, though; Basso wouldn't sell him out for any amount of money. It was an odd feeling, knowing that he trusted Basso to that degree, but - in this case at least - Garrett had gotten used to it long ago.

"Rork's teeth, Garrett." Flustered, aware it was joke but unaccustomed (no matter how many times), waving his hands again. Gwendolyn cawed and flapped her wings in response. "Ya seen the Thief-Taker's new wanted posters for you, right? Offering fifty thousand gold for your corpse?"

A soft, affirmative hum. "And double that if I'm taken alive. Flattering, really." Even if it made his skin crawl. Harlan wanted him alive far more than he wanted him dead. Given he'd not only stolen the Serendi ring attached to his belt but slipped out of the ancient Rotunda, all without getting caught and right under Harlan's nose; that he'd since continued to evade capture, and continued to steal anything that caught his fancy; that he'd not only been responsible for ending the Graven Dawn when the General himself had failed, but that despite his claims to the contrary that truth was still whispered through the alleys of The City - well, all that considered… Garrett prefered not to think about all the reasons the Thief-Taker wanted him delivered alive.

He had a feeling that he'd prefer the corpse method.

Basso rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well - look, I looked into this guy first, yeah? Obviously. I wouldn't trust my best lifter to some bullshit. Called himself Raven." Basso put his hands on his desk, leant forward slightly. Head tilted ever so slightly to the side - Gwendolyn warbled quietly again.

"You couldn't find anything on him, could you?"

A helpless shrug. "Not a damn thing. Guy doesn't fuckin' exist. Not a surprise really, but I got _nothing._ He can't have been in The City that long to not leave a trace anywhere." Frustrated, but Basso simply sighed and straightened up, gestured to the brief letter Garrett had set back down on the desk. "Wanted me to give that to you. Don't got a clue why he's so fucking cryptic with it - gave me all the information about the job anyway. Point is… normally I'd tell him to fuck off and be done with it."

"Oh good; you _can_ still see a trap past that belly of yours."

Basso offered an indignant sound, swatting the air in Garrett's direction. "Yeah, yeah, fuck you too. The _point is,_ mystery dick offered half a million coin for the dagger's safe return." An edge in his voice, there - and Garrett paused, going still in response. _More coin than my life is worth… might not be an exaggeration._ "And that's… a shitload of coin. So I figured that I'd offer you the job and let you decide."

Garrett shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tilting his head while he considered it. Obvious trap was obvious, but the bait… Garrett didn't even have anything he could really _do_ with so much gold. He had no plans to leave The City - it was his home - and he couldn't rightly purchase an estate in Auldale.

Although, the idea was tempting. To live in luxury was appealing, but Garrett liked the Clocktower good and well as it was. No, it wasn't the space or the reputation that made the thought a temptation - it was just how funny it would be to see the Thief-Taker General's face the day he realised Garrett was living in Auldale. It was some glorious sort of middle finger to the man; almost as much as stealing his prized ring and sneaking out in silence and shadows.

It must have shown on his face, because Basso let out a sound of exasperation. "Jacknall's balls, you're really thinking about doing this, ain't you?" For a moment, Garrett was confused - Auldale? No, he really wasn't seriously considering living in Auldale - and then he remembered that Basso wasn't privy to his thoughts.

"You said it yourself, Basso. That's a lot of gold."

"Yeah, and you and I both know it's a trap."

Garrett shrugged. It would hardly be the first trap he'd knowingly walked into, and besides - he had his wits, his wirecutters, his focus. The dull ache flared up briefly at even the thought, but Garrett forced it down. Basso flickered with a blue shimmer for a second. Strong, bright. Fingers dug into Garrett's upper arms. It took a moment of silence and stress to realise they were his own.

"... I think I can handle a trap." Now _that_ was a matter of pride. Stupid, stupid pride - he didn't need to have an ego, he knew he was the best. Garrett hadn't live this long by being stupid, he'd lived this long because he knew when to bail. He knew when to give up. He'd always known that fear was his friend. Healthy fear kept him alive, kept him from making stupid mistakes because of pride or greed.

Garrett thought of the Great Safe, and the Stone fragment that was all it had held. _All I had to do was get you in the building._ He'd known that had been stupid when he'd done it too. Live or die, flee or steal. It had been pride, and ego, and the overwhelming desire to stick it to the General as much as he possibly could. Stupid. He'd risked his life for nothing - for bragging rights. Who was he going to brag to?

True, he'd needed the fragment in the end, but he'd had no way of knowing that at the time. At the time, it had just been…. And the Keep had been in flames, crumbling around him - he'd risked Basso's life, sending him out into the riot and the panic alone and injured, all because he hadn't been able to resist the prize.

Pain flashed behind his right eye again. _How had he known?_ Garrett pushed it all aside.

"You're right." And for once, Basso was silent, mouth open where he'd been about to speak, stunned. "What else you got, Basso? I'd rather avoid a blade in my neck. Or a rope around it."

Basso nodded, said something in agreement, ruffled through a series of papers. Garrett had to make himself listen; it dug into his chest like a Watchman's sword. It was a stupid job, an obvious trap. Too much money (nobody could actually pay that much), too far fetched a target (nobody left a prized dagger in the Old Quarter who couldn't retrieve it), too suspicious a client. Basso had no taste for violence, was heavier on his feet than a pregnant ox, couldn't have picked a pocket if his target was already dead and took more time to pick a lock than it took Garrett to pick a house clean - but where he failed at gathering loot, he excelled at gathering information. Garrett had never quite gotten the hang of that particular skill; yes, he could sniff out an expensive trinket a mile away, but Basso moved through information like Garrett moved through a shadow.

If Basso couldn't find anything about the strange Raven, then there was nothing to be found.

"... Captain's wife over in Auldale. Ask me those jewels are probably fake, but the damn comb's made of whalebone, so it's probably worth more with the damn things ripped off anyway. Garrett?" Lifted into a slightly higher pitch, stepped a little closer, concern alight in his eyes. The scars on his temple and jaw flickered in the candlelight, remnants of the ordeal Garrett had cost him.

Garrett unfolded his arms, let the carefully torn cloak fall about him more fully, obscuring his form as he eased back half a step more into the shadow. There was an odd look on Basso's face as he stopped, eyeing him. It wasn't confusion, and he didn't seem angry. Garrett wasn't very good at reading people's faces beyond that. Nevertheless, he felt the tiny nibble of guilt in his chest; it wasn't often he retreated from Basso. He wasn't even sure why he had - reflex, maybe. His thoughts had been leagues away.

"Hey, forget about that Raven cunt. How you doing, Garrett?" Low now, instead of lifted, but with the same edge of concern; almost soft. It wasn't unusual, exactly, not from Basso, but it still sat funny in Garrett's stomach.

Instead, he shrugged. "You're like a mother hen, Basso. Are you like this with all your blackhands?"

 _Ah. Shit._

Basso scowled at him, and although Garrett could read the anger it didn't quite seem… right. Not directed at him, maybe. _Blackhands._ Garrett had a funny relationship with the word himself - most thieves did - but Basso reviled it. Everybody had their quirks.

"Nah, Garrett. You're stupider than most of 'em, so you get special treatment." A different edge this time, turning away to pick out a small scroll of paper from the many on his desk and holding it out. _That's fair._ It was hardly his problem that he was better than all the others too. "Client got a drawing of the comb. Burn that, this time, yeah? Don't forget." A faint tremble, in his hand, as he let Garrett take the rolled up drawing - Garrett chose to ignore it. Easier that way, for everybody. "Owned by the new Lady Auberdine, in case you didn't hear me the first time." Garrett hadn't. Was it that obvious? Garrett could only hope Basso simply knew him that well. "Client wants you to meet them at that new Skinmarket inn, whassit called- the Wasted Stallion." And then, muttered under his breath, quiet enough Garrett only barely caught it: "Pretentious shitheads."

"You didn't tell them I'd meet there." Flat. Garrett wouldn't be caught in a place like that; rob it blind from the rafters, maybe, but never caught. Even somewhere dark and unpopulated, Garrett almost never interacted with their clients personally. Basso handled the people side of their arrangement; he took the jobs, gave back the goods, split the money with Garrett.

Basso offered him another scowl. "Course not. I ain't got sloop between my ears, Garrett. Tell you though, she seemed mighty disappointed she wouldn't get to meet you. I think you've got yourself a following of some sort. That stuff you got around your eyes? That the ladies use on their lashes or whatever? Some of them have started wearing it like you do." Shaking his head.

A moment of silence. _That_ was an entirely different kind of not okay. "Forget the jobs, Basso. Time to skip town." Muttered, lacking bite because Garrett still had no intention of actually going anywhere - The City was his _home_ \- but the thought of not only being well-known enough for people to start imitating him but that people might actually _imitate_ him-

Garrett shook his head.

"Don't worry about it. Same deal as always, Garrett. You steal the comb, I'll handle the rest."

A half shrug. It was better than doing nothing, although even in Auldale under Harlan's nose, he didn't expect it to be much of a challenge. "See you later, Basso." Grabbing the letter he'd discarded, Garrett turned and left. He used the door.

In the lamplight before he was lost to shadow, he reread the letter.

 _The Old Quarter. Her name is Jessamine. I was told you are the best. Casualties are unacceptable._

Handwritten, a tight even scrawl. The endless string of capitals made Garrett's headache even worse. Scrunched up in hand, and then shoved into a spare pocket - too cryptic, too demanding. _Her name is Jessamine._ A goddamn dagger. He didn't even realise he was gritting his teeth until he'd scaled the side of the building and settled in a comfortable crouch on the slatted roof. The ache in his jaw only made the rest of him hurt worse.

 _Casualties are unacceptable._

What in the name of every old god and new did that fucking mean? Obviously, Garrett wasn't there to kill anyone. He wasn't an assassin, and he never would be. Taking someone's valuables and taking someone's life were opposite ends of a very large, very imbalanced scale. It wasn't that he'd never killed anyone before - but he'd never set out to do so, and even in his long career it had only happened four times. Each time had come down a choice between their life, and his.

Garrett put it out of his head. He had other things to think about - right now, and pretty much for the rest of his life. Those other things decidedly did _not_ include the last couple of years. Right now, they included the whalebone comb.

Now, that really _was_ a rare thing. Whalebone wasn't common pretty much anywhere outside of the Empire of the Isles, but it was an even scarcer resource within The Eternal City. Trade with outside nations was fairly limited here; the citystate had always made do mostly on its own. It was one of the reasons (although Garrett didn't know or care to know the others) that whatever its original name, it had just become The City. Granted they were somewhat secluded on a large island off the west coast of Gristol, but they were pretty much the last place within the Isles themselves that hadn't ceded to the Empire.

A chill went through him at the thought. Their government had just been decimated. They were under martial law, had been for the last year, and the Thief-Taker was still having trouble keeping The City in line within the urban areas, nevermind the farms that were all stretched out across the remaining island above Cinderfall.

They were _vulnerable._

The ache pulsed in Garrett's head, spiking across to settle behind both eyes and spiralling down his neck. Swallowed the groan, but he dropped his head into his hands all the same, and then pulled down the scarf to squeeze the bridge of his nose. Fingertips dug into the corners of his eyes, pressing down. Normally, it might have hurt in its own right - now, it somewhat eased the ache a tiny bit. Or at least, it redistributed sensation until he fooled himself into thinking it hurt less.

"Well… Guess I know how we kept the Empire at bay all this time." The Northcrest family had been safeguarding and using the Primal for generations. It would, at least, have been an effective shield against their assault, and an effective weapon against their insurgence.

A sigh, fingers lowering back to the slats for balance. But the Primal was gone. Or at least, it was utterly uncontrolled. The Northcrests were all dead, their secrets dead with them. Most of the old noble families had been killed, driven out, or otherwise dismantled during the coup and over the following year. Power had shifted. Political clout meant almost nothing these days - military clout was where the power (and the gold) was at. Most of the new 'noble' families were those who had fathers in high places within the Watch. Harlan had taken the Baron's manor as a mixture of his own personal home and the new Watch headquarters.

Garrett didn't want to think about that.

But a pseudo-militia led by an obsessive monster like the Thief-Taker wouldn't protect them. When the Empire learned of the absolute clusterfuck their leadership had become, it wouldn't take long to strike. Thinking about it now, Garrett was honestly surprised that they hadn't already been subjugated.

 _No._ He didn't want to think about that either. He wasn't sure what he'd do. Survive, steal - obviously - but if the endgoal was establishing a new rhythm and stealing from another new set of upperclassmen, that meant getting through the overhaul in one piece. Garrett wasn't much for politics or even national loyalty. As long as there was something to steal and he could continue living in The City, he would be happy. But he wasn't a fool - and the Empire was ruthless to those who opposed it. The Isles had once been four different kingdoms, and the citystates had littered all of them. The Eternal City was the last one left, and had been for so long Garrett barely knew the names of what had once been their kin.

The problem wasn't maintaining targets, should the Empire come to claim them. It was surviving the process in the first place.

Well. At least they'd take care of the General for him.

Once again, Garrett shook his head, trying to clear those thoughts. The ache burst outwards at the movement, and regret bloomed in his gut alongside nausea. "Fuck me," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose again. He was starting to consider raiding an apothecary. He didn't like most of their medicines at the best of times - poppy milk might be the worse offender, but he loathed the way they all dulled his senses and fogged his mind - but some days he couldn't even sleep for the pain. It was starting to be the worse evil.

Taking a deep breath, Garrett balanced on the roof, hands flat against the leaning slats between his feet, and tried to box everything up. His thoughts went away; the pain resisted but eventually settled back behind his eyes. He opened them, winced in the lamplight, and focused on the dark of his leather. It still hurt like hell, and it made thinking a little harder, the pain flaring outward again every time he caught light in his eyes, but it was better than nothing.

 _Please don't focus flare me right now._ It had been bad enough yesterday; he hadn't gone out all night, trying to fletch some new arrows through the pain and over the strange greyscale flatness that the world took on when he looked through the Primal, and come daybreak he'd been so exhausted he'd passed out over the top of his blankets without even undressing. By the time he'd woken up (several hours past dusk), it had stopped.

He boxed the fragments of weird dreams - _drifting fog that glowed like moonlight and coiled like shadows, luminous flowers that refused to bloom, the constant permeating clicking and claws and screaming and hollow eye sockets filled with hatred and light, the coldness of it, the distant voice that cooed and laughed_ \- alongside everything else, took another deep breath, and stood up.

The pain got worse, but his vision and balance held, so he slowly pulled his scarf back up, wrapped securely over his nose, and looked around. There was only one bridge across the river to Auldale (at least, only one within the city limits), and myriad ways to sneak across it. Garrett really didn't feel like stowing away somewhere to do it tonight; it was too unpredictable, too unreliable. He very well might have to cling to the underside of a wagon or a carriage, and he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to sustain such a hold anymore. Not with the constant pain in his head, or how much it had cut down his appetite, or the shuddering of wheels across cobblestone.

But all the same, he didn't want to risk getting caught in an open spotlight, _did not_ want to swim, and definitely wasn't going to steal a boat to do it. "Guess I'll climb the underside."

Sighed. It wasn't a particularly enjoyable climb - not like scaling the Clocktower - and while it wasn't particularly dangerous either (even if he _did_ fall, and he wouldn't, it was a short drop into water, and Garrett at least knew how to swim to shore), the underside of the bridge was one of the last places in The City that one could find the scorpions.

Tiny things, sunset orange in daylight and pale grey in darkness, and their venom wasn't enough to kill a grown man but it hurt like an absolute motherfucker. Last time Garrett had gotten stung, he'd been totally out of commission for a week.

He'd just have to be careful not to disturb any of their nests. They were territorial little things, living in clusters, but they weren't overly aggressive. It wasn't a huge problem if he got stung, but he'd have barely enough time to make it back to the Clocktower at top speed before the venom fully kicked in if he did.

Right now… he wasn't sure he would make that. The thought made him want to hit something. _Someone._ He hated having to plan around this weakness. He hated not being able to rely on his skills, his body, the way he always had. He hated the Primal. It had taken so fucking much from him already. It had taken an entire year of his life. It had taken all chance of reconciliation with Erin. And that hadn't been enough, the fucking thing- energy, life, being, _whatever_ it was, it hadn't been satisfied with all that, with nesting in his eye like some kind of parasitic worm and changing its colour, changing his senses. Now it was slowly crippling him too.

 _Not tonight. Later. Deal with it later._

Deal with it later and hope it goes away. Not exactly a good solution, but it was all Garrett could do about the Primal. What little he truly knew of it he'd picked up during his hunt for Erin; from her whispers and taunting in the visions, from Elias Northcrest and the few notes and murmurs he'd picked up around the Manor and his minions, from Orion and his whole bowl of crazy. He hadn't exactly gone out his way to study up on the subject, and he didn't have much interest in doing so. There was no one he could really ask about it, besides perhaps the Queen of Beggars, and she was reticent at best and downright fallacious at best. In all the years Garrett had known her, he wasn't certain he'd ever gotten a straight answer out of her.

Anything else that might have offered some insight meant either breaking into Northcrest Manor or going back to the forgotten library below the House of Blossoms. He wasn't particularly keen on doing either of those things. Being in the House of Blossoms at all was risky, a little frightening (he knew Madame Xiao Xiao was good to her girls, but she was ambitious and duplicitous and would skewer him in a heartbeat if he was caught there). Besides which, even with his scarf securely in place, moving fast and breathing as little as possible, the opium smoking the air was enough to dull his reflexes a little. He would rather avoid the whole place.

So Garrett put the Primal and its problems out of his mind, as much as he could. He didn't know enough about it, didn't fully understand what it was or how it worked or _why_ it had stuck to him like this. He didn't really know why it gave him all these… abilities, or what it had truly done to Erin - and frankly, he just wanted it to stop. They were useful, to a degree, but he didn't need or want the extra abilities.

And it had driven Erin mad. He didn't know what happened to her after trying to pull it out of her; if she was still alive all this time later, if she was sane, or back to her old self, or still out of her mind.

He didn't want it in his head, but given he wanted to gouge out his own eye even less, he tried to make do.

His musings had brought him to the Auldale bridge. For several minutes, dropping down from the buildings and settling into a comfortable shadow, he just observed. He could pick out the Watch patrols by their bobbing torches; there were, no doubt, half a dozen more Watchmen wandering the bridge in darkness. The General was quite aware of Garrett's penchant for slipping past fire-blind men when their backs were turned.

Of course, that applied to other thieves as well, but neither they nor the torchless Watchmen had Garrett's night vision. Even without focusing.

The thought pulsed pain across his face, and for a second everything stopped. There was white in his vision, and Garrett closed his eyes. When he opened them again, seconds later, the torches had rotated almost half their circuit. _Longer than a few seconds. Fuck._

It didn't matter. He pushed it aside, waited for the torches to be as far away from the closest corner of the bridge as they were all going to get, and sidled closer. A late carriage was waiting at the mouth of the bridge, a pair of horses stomping impatiently and chewing their bits. The faint _clang_ as their metal-clad hooves impacted the stone set Garrett's nerves on edge, like a faint ache in his teeth. Or maybe that was the Primal. _Keep looking at them._

He had to duck behind it all the same, right as he slipped out of a shadow to jump over the edge, because a Watchman without a torch stepped out opposite him. Low to the ground, half hidden behind one of the carriage wheels, Garrett peered out again. The man had stopped, squinting in the soft light from the Watchmen talking to the carriage driver, and was staring at where Garrett had been. Curses flooded to the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them and simply waited. _Come on, come on. It was just a shadow. Move on before-_

"Alright, you're clear to go. Safe ride." There was a faint response from the driver, and Garrett heard the crack of the reins. _Shit, shit._ The Watchman who'd seen him was still there, taking a few steps closer now, clearly suspicious - although confused, or he would have already raised an alarm.

No choice.

Garrett twisted as the horses whinnied and started to move again, hooked his fingers through the framework on the underside of the vehicle, and reverse bunny-hopped his feet against the far corners of the structure. Already, a dull ache started up in his shoulders, weaving down between his shoulder blades to the small of his back; he twisted his hands until he was hooked by his palms, closer to the wrists than the knuckles, and well and truly locked in. His thighs took up the ache a few moments later, exerting a constant, tiring pressure against the corner beams of the undercarriage.

It was every bit of hell that he'd expected it would be. By the time he got to the other side of the bridge, Garrett had decided the comb wasn't worth this much trouble and more than not, he was likely to stab the client with it than actually see it returned.

The carriage stopped again. The jerking rumbling stopped, and he felt his jaw relax - when had he clenched it? - and he took as slow a breath as he could manage. Voices and firelight drifted down to him, but he stayed where he was; he couldn't drop here. He didn't have enough information, there was too much light. It was ten times harder to slip _out_ from under a carriage than it was to get there in the first place. Everything ached. The pain behind his eyes was so sharp he was beginning to wonder if gouging out the Primal eye might hurt less after all.

 _Old gods, don't look down._ His cloak was hanging from his shoulders, dragging on the ground. He hated that too, but he hadn't the time to tuck it over his waist and he didn't dare hang from one hand. Not right now, not with the pressure he had to hold with his feet to stay in this position; too little and he fell, too much and he risked damaging the wood, or at least distorting it enough to cause noticeable change. With one hand, it was hard to hold the right pressure at the best of times - he could barely concentrate enough on where all the Watchmen were around the carriage, let alone juggle that kind of change in leverage.

The reins cracked, the horses snorted low, and the cracking shudder of the carriage over cobblestone started up again.

Garrett's eyes closed.

He was pushing too hard. He was pushing too hard, and he knew it. Normally, unless he was forced to, Garrett did his best not to overwork himself. There was no weakness in stopping when he hit his limits - there was incredible stupidity in pushing beyond and harming himself, just for the sake of pride. He didn't _need_ to go beyond his limits, most of the time. If he was tired, he would rest; hungry, and he would eat. He wanted for very little, materialistically. What he did, he could simply take. Garrett's best, and most indispensable tool, was his body. He tried to take as careful care of it as he did all his others.

But this…

 _There's something wrong with me._

There was darkness around them now, the road smoothing out from cobble to worked stone. The rattling dulled; not gone, but close enough. Garrett slowly worked his hands back out to just the fingers, clinging with all his strength, and glanced sideways. Again. He saw nothing in the dark, no feet or other horses. It would have to do.

He waited for a pause in movement, a natural slow as the horses adjusted their strides, and let go. The fall, as short as it was, knocked the breath out of him.

A gasp, but he didn't have time to be winded. Garrett waited the second it took for the carriage to drive on and expose him, scrambled to his feet, staying low, and swooped towards the nearest building. A moment later, he squeezed into the narrow alley between it and its neighbour, lost himself in shadow, and slid down the wall. Out of sight, now. Safe.

Okay, time to be winded.

He took his time, getting his breath back. It took longer than he liked; dropping from a carriage in motion often winded him. It was all about the landing. He knew how to catch himself safely in a fall, how to roll out momentum, but a drop like that - even short, it was blind and it was from an awkward, rigid position. Most of the time, he landed badly. Still, it was something he was used to, something he knew how to work through. Garrett knew how long it should have taken him to recover.

The ache slowly eased in his muscles, but the pain behind his eyes only grew sharper. Almost twice as long as he'd hoped- as he'd expected, Garrett unfolded his arms from his diaphragm and took a deep breath.

He was pushing himself too hard. Why? Why couldn't he just ease off until he figured this whole Primal thing out? (Or it killed him. Yeah… that was a distinct possibility). Even knowing he was being stupid, the idea of giving up - of letting the Primal defeat him, _again -_ kicked up something violent in his chest.

It wasn't a feeling he liked. Garrett wasn't prone to emotional outbursts; he'd never been particularly driven by emotion. Sure, he enjoyed stealing and he basked in the precision and skill of it, but he wasn't ruled by his enjoyment. Logic was a much better motivator - reason, deduction, rationality. Garrett did what he wanted, when he wanted, so long as it was safe and he was in control. In control of himself, as much in control of the situation and the consequences as he could be.

Emotion made you stupid. It made you fragile. If Erin had ever taught him anything, it was that. She'd always been wild - out of control. Garrett had made an emotional decision to steal the Claw from her, and she'd made an emotional decision to fight him for it. She'd chosen pride and ego over safety and logic when he'd called off the mission. Garrett had stayed to save her instead of saving his own hide.

In the end, if they'd both just been _reasonable_ \- rational - they would have been fine. Emotion was dangerous. Garrett knew he couldn't get rid of it entirely, and he wasn't self-destructive enough to try, but he wouldn't be ruled by it.

But this… Even the thought of turning back now, of giving up this job and heading back to the Clocktower to rest and work on the Primal burning him out, made his chest tighten again. He should, he should - he needed to slow down again. He needed to stop for a while. It was the same thing he'd done after Erin had run off, to let his hand heal, to ensure he didn't ruin his future by being reckless and greedy now.

There was something wrong with him. He should go home.

When Garrett slid back up the wall and got to his feet, glancing up to search for the moon through the clouds, he chided himself. _You're being stupid. You didn't chase the dagger job because it was a stupid risk. Why is this any different?_ But the headache dulled back to just his right eye, a deep coil of pain that made him feel heavy, and Garrett turned towards what had once been the Argent estate. It now belonged to Watch Captain Auberdine and his family. The comb belonged to his wife.

He made it into the house without much trouble. The family had three or four dedicated guards (made exempt from the Watch conscription by virtue of practically belonging to a Captain already), but Garrett barely had to try to slip past them. Like most, they fell into the folly of never looking up.

Finding the comb itself wouldn't be quite as easy, but he still didn't expect trouble. It was always possible he'd get lucky and overhear the guards talking about it, but once he'd gotten into the house he put the distant hope aside. He expected a housemaid or two, maybe a butler if Harlan liked this Captain particularly, but the guards were likely to remain outside. His first guess would be the master bedroom, then.

There were no convenient hidden passages that led down to the floors below - at least, not that Garrett found during his sweep of the top floor. A nice pair of earrings, left tucked away so far back in an otherwise empty room Garrett rather suspected they'd belonged to the previous tenant, and a small stack of coins later, and he was slipping down the stairwell as fast as possible, sticking to the walls. The carpet muffled his footsteps, letting him stay quiet even as he rushed, but he was still relieved when he came to the next hallway and ducked into the shadow of a large cupboard. He'd seen nobody around upon descent, but he pressed deeper into the wall and closed his eyes, willing the ache therein to fade and straining his hearing for any scrape of sound.

His heart thudded in his ears, heavier and faster than he was used to. He hadn't exerted himself all that much, had he? The movement over the rooftops hadn't been particularly difficult, not before or after the bridge, and while clinging to an undercarriage was never fun, it shouldn't have worn him out this much. Especially not after giving himself time to recover and merely sneaking through a house.

This time, he crept onto the top of the cupboard and buried his face in his hands. After a moment, he pulled his scarf free from his face to let himself breathe easier. It was the pain; he couldn't get his heart to drop into a more normal pace no matter how much slow breathing he did.

 _"Fuck."_ As soft as possible, under his breath, and then opening his eyes, pulling his scarf back up, scanning the hall. A flicker of blue washed across his vision, the shadows fading to white - voices reached his ears, suddenly clear despite the strange hollow reverberation that clung to them, and then agony filled his head. One hand went straight to the top of the cupboard, hard, too loud, but holding his balance where he crouched on his toes. His heels dropped under him, flatfooted now. The other hand went over his face, fingertips digging into his temples. His thumb pressed the fabric of the scarf into his mouth, tugging it out of place. It tasted like dust as he bit down on it, but it kept his teeth from grinding and offered some tiny, paltry resistance.

Now was not the time for this.

Even as he slowly opened his eyes, the pain vibrated through his whole body and slipped under his skin. The oily feeling filled him, and the sensation of ignition wasn't far behind. Garrett held his teeth tight, jaw aching with the pressure, but he stayed still and listened to the voices.

In hindsight, 'voices' may have been too tame a description. Gasps and moans caught in his ears, shivering against the thunder of his heartbeat. A faint sense of coldness trickled out from his chest. It didn't mix well with the burning oil pain emanating out from his eye. Reflexively, he wiped at the curve of his nose and under his eye. His fingertips came away smudged with kohl, but dry.

Clenching his hand, Garrett tried to unfocus, tried to think. The pale glow dimmed, but didn't fade completely; focus flared. A useful term that meant nothing to anyone else, but it was what Garrett had taken to calling the bouts of uncontrollable focus.

They'd been happening more and more.

 _That'll be the master bedroom, then._ Just his luck they'd be having sex in it right when he showed up. On the other hand, most people in the middle of sex didn't notice an extra shadow.

He didn't have to show off right now. He just had to get the comb, and get the hell out before this focus flare really knocked him on his ass. Garrett could feel it coming, the oozing pain creeping deeper into him as the seconds passed, slowly surrounding muscle and organs and bone until there was nothing left that didn't feel like it was on fire.

 _Curse whichever pit the Primal crawled out of._

Garrett dropped down from the shadow, watching the air shudder with little white ribbons as he neared the door from which behind the moans came. He glanced around, moving his head slowly to ensure he didn't give himself whiplash, and made sure there were no other little shimmers. Nothing approaching.

The ache in his eyes should have made him blind, if not for the flatform lightlessness that saturated everything. Garrett hadn't felt this nauseas for a long time. He didn't think he could manage another trip across the bridge under a carriage, if there were still any crossing (and there always was, if he just waited long enough). This unsteady, there was no way he could safely make the climb under the bridge, and if he got caught in a spotlight then the Watch would take him straight to Harlan.

To make it back over, he'd have to swim. The thought made the nausea worse, but it was better to be swimming across the surface the whole way than to get stung by a scorpion and fall beneath it. He wasn't sure he'd be able to find it again.

He finally unfocused as he eased the door open to the bedroom, the shimmer and disorienting shadowlessness fading back into darkness and candlelight. Even just a tiny bit, the pain inside his skull dimmed. The moans were much louder in here, even as he closed the door most of the way again and slunk around the wall, keeping his body low to the floor and holding his steps as he moved, keeping silent. Fragments of each other's names filled the air like opium, the heady gasps shuddering after them. If Garrett had been in less pain, he'd have been uncomfortable. It wasn't as if he hadn't snuck past people having sex before - in fact, it was more common than he really appreciated, and the entire House of Blossoms was nothing but. Even so, he would much prefer the alternative.

Was it so much to ask that all the normal daylight people be asleep by now?

He couldn't help the way his hair went on end as he crept past them to the big dresser drawers; he was only human, after all. By the time he'd opened the fourth drawer, spotted the false bottom, frozen at the pause in sound and then carefully slid it to the side just enough to tug the comb out from under it, Garrett's skin prickled uncomfortably, an altogether different and equally unwelcome heat mixing with the Primal's oily burning feeling. It was too hot in this room; he could feel the slick stickiness of sweat under his leathers.

The comb went point up into one of the leather pouches tied to his harness, trying to keep the teeth from doing any damage, and Garrett put the drawer back in order. As fast as he could, he moved back around the walls of the room, opened the door the crack he needed to slip out, and shut it behind him.

Moans of crescendo followed him out, and he shuddered. It wasn't his heartbeat thundering in his skull, he'd realised, it was just the pain.

Really, seriously, time to go.

The trip back to the bridge was a little bit of a blur. For as far as he could, he stuck to the rooftops and atop the estate walls, but eventually he had to drop down to street level. It had never really been a comfortable altitude for him. It took him several minutes, and Garrett chewed the inside of the scarf in frustration, struggling to shove away the pain, but he counted four bobbing torches. One less than before. What had happened to it? Maybe the patrol had broken up, joined their fellows - maybe they'd gotten tired and bailed. Maybe they'd fallen over the side and into the river. The thought brought a modicum of amusement to him, although he couldn't bring himself to laugh through the agony flooding his body.

 _There really is seriously something wrong with me._

He knew, because the thought that maybe the missing patrol had expanded their routes didn't even occur to him. He slunk out of the shadows, heading towards the side of the bridge, intending to drop down and swim, and it wasn't until the shout went up behind him that he realised he too was casting a shadow.

The firelight bobbed behind him, closer. Shouting - _"The thief! Catch him! Shoot to maim, you dogs - don't kill him!"_ \- and the whole bridge erupted into chaos. The ground by Garrett's feet blew, stone fragments pinging off the sides of his legs. The leather protected him from cuts, but at least one of those was going to bruise. Winking innocently, the bolt buried itself in the cobble.

It hurt, but Garrett broke into a dead sprint. It hurt so much he could barely see - couldn't keep track of where the Watch was, who was shooting, what direction they were coming from. He bolted for the Auldale bridge, blackjacked the only Watchman who was quick enough to meet him head on directly in the face, and raced from shadow to shadow. His muscles burned, his chest tight and the thundering in his skull thudding in time with his footsteps, but he couldn't stop. The sound of shouting was everywhere, firelight was starting to converge. There was the sound of exploding stone, too close, with too much regularity.

Instinct took over.

He darted back and forth as he ran across the bridge, dodging as many men as he could, and those unlucky few that he couldn't avoid caught a blackjack to the head - or whatever part of them Garrett could reach. A sword missed him by an inch, swung over his head with enough force to send the Watchman to the ground as he met no resistance. Garrett's hood was ripped back, and without missing a beat he tore down the scarf to make breathing as easy as possible; kept running. They already knew his face, what did it matter? He wasn't exactly hiding now.

Past the bridge, into Stonemarket, keep going, gasping for breath, like his whole body might combust at any second, every movement slippery, _keep going,_ careening into walls as he went around corners, not daring to lose speed, unable to hear if they were still on his tail over the ragged heaving breath in his throat and the crashing beat of his heart in his ears.

 _Blue._

There was so much blue, the whiteness and the winding ribbons of light as the clamour of his feet filled the air, and the shouts followed him, and insults flashed by from citizens awoken from sleep. Garrett had lost track of where he was going, trying desperately to think while he fled. All he had to do was get somewhere safe, he just had to lose the Watch and hide. They weren't that clever, and there were millions of shadows available.

Lose their trail. Get to safety.

 _Can't think. Move. Why is everything so fucking blue?_

The Primal was scorching in his right eye, an excruciating wet pressure like his eyeball had ruptured. No time to check, just running. Would probably accidentally poke it out if he tried. Might not be a terrible idea.

Eventually, he had to slow down or be sick. He was only human, he had human limits. He'd never pushed so far past them unless he had to. Why had he…? The whalebone comb pricked his fingers as he dug it out roughly, staggering against the wall and into a shadow. _Fuck you._ But he couldn't let it go.

Where was he?

Tried to look around, frantically, looking for something familiar, a landmark to orient himself. Everything looked… wrong. Even with the glowing blue and the shining whiteness that made the whole world look flat, it was almost like the perspective was wrong.

 _I'm on the ground._

Garrett was so used to seeing The City from the rooftops. Maybe he should climb the building he was leant against, get a better handle on his surr-

Twisting and looking up nearly made him vomit. His whole body was agony, the pain in his head so acute he could almost _hear_ it, borderline blind in his right eye. Safe. He just had to get somewhere safe.

The comb teeth hurt like hell, but it was a different kind of pain. Sharp and immediate, something tangible to concentrate on over the howling voices of a thousand nebulous pains. The beads of blood looked almost black viewed through the lens of the Primal, flecked with a million glittering blue dots.

 _Safe._ All he had to do was get somewhere safe.

Comb teeth biting into his fingerpads, his other hand pressed against his right eye as if the heel of his palm could stop the Primal leaking out, Garrett took off running. He didn't even try to stick to the shadows.

He couldn't even see them.

* * *

It was the footsteps that first alerted him. Rushing, the panicked sound of someone fleeing without regard to the noise they made. Caught his attention, lifted his head, and then Basso scowled as he realised they were getting rapidly closer.

"Oi, listen 'ere you half-arsed lifter, I ain't gonna hide you from the W-" and the man careened into the basement, stumbling- all but falling down the stairs, and it wasn't Nikol like he'd thought it was. The hood was ripped back, the face exposed for all the world to see, black hair (black? Had he ever even seen that before?) wild.

Blue-green light coiled up between his fingers like smoke, bleeding past the hand that covered the right half of his face.

"Garrett…"

Stunned. Basso had seen Garrett hurt before, and once or twice he'd even spent the day curled up under the Burrick, too sore or tired to make the climb back up the Clocktower - or the stones too iced over to risk it.

In all that time, he'd never seen Garrett panic. Never seen the naked fear that filled the eye Garrett hadn't covered. It gleamed back in the candlelight, the soft brown wide, pupil narrow. He was panting, breath jagged in the cool night air, and for a long moment everything seemed to stretch. Basso felt his heart stutter over the shock.

Then, all at once, that eye rolled and Garrett collapsed. The blue smoke spiralled to nothing and something clattered to the ground from his other hand, his whole body crumpling, and as Basso shot forward to catch him _("Shit! Garrett!"),_ he saw that it was the comb, speckled with blood. Shock was an open wound in Basso's chest, hollow and cold. For a long moment, all he could do was stand there and hold Garrett's limp form.

He was… light. Basso hadn't ever carried his weight before, but he had seen the lithe way Garrett moved when he'd been drenched in light - or at least not completely hidden in shadow. He'd gotten a fairly good feel for it rowing them over to Moira, because he knew the difference in stroke effort between them both in the boat, and Basso alone. Even accounting for how Garrett had been noticeably narrower and lighter after his missing year, Basso was good at mental math.

Too much of the weight in Basso's arms was from the leather and Garrett's other gear.

"Fuck, Garrett. What did you do?" Dragging him up a little more, Basso carried the unconscious thief back to the nook where his bed was tucked away. Even though Basso was a public face in his enterprise, it didn't mean he liked being in the open while he slept. He had one foot in the shadows, after all. "... I shouldn't have let ya take this job." Muttered, hot with guilt even as he set Garrett down on the bed and started stripping off weapons and tools. The bow came off first, and the quiver right behind it - Basso handled that as carefully at he could manage, not just because he knew Garrett had created the bow himself, but because he also knew Garrett crafted his own arrows, and he had absolutely no desire to find out what happened should one of them blow up in his face. He set them on the bookcase beside the bed, a couple of shelves down. An easy reach when Garrett awoke and found himself weaponless.

The cloak came off easily, and the scarf with it. Basso took a moment to study Garrett's face; he knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it. Garrett always had the scarf pulled down when they spoke - a display of respect, at first, and later one of trust and (dare Basso believe it) affection - but this was the clearest he'd ever seen him.

The glow that sometimes came on in his murky blue eye wasn't there, or at least wasn't visible through his eyelid, but the jagged, pitted scar that ran from his hairline down to his jaw had the faintest milky sheen in the dim candlelight. It didn't sit very deep in his face, but the edges broke and danced like a canyon seam; it was (with his eye closed) his most distinguishable feature. Again, as always, the low burn of hatred settled in Basso's gut. The Northcrest Manor should have been reduced to nothing but cinders.

Black hair fell around his head in a wild halo; there were obvious twists where it normally sat under the leather hood, totally flattened, but it wasn't as short as Basso might have expected. It had a strange matte look, lacking glossiness - it almost looked as if Garrett had rubbed kohl through it. Basso resisted the urge to touch and find out.

The climbing harness that locked around his torso proved harder to get off. Basso kept working at it, until practically every buckle he could find was undone, and eventually he managed to twist it off one arm at a time, wincing as the movement pulled Garrett into an unnatural position. He didn't resist the whole time, limp and pliant under Basso's hands - like a fresh corpse.

 _Hell's cunt, Basso._ After the thought had surfaced though, he couldn't help it. He kept checking that Garrett was still breathing. An almost silent endeavour, slow, but his chest rose and fell with comfortable regularity. He didn't make a sound as Basso manipulated him - didn't even twitch.

Well and truly down for the count.

Basso was starting to worry about poisons, as he unclipped and tugged off Garrett's gloves, followed that up with his boots, removed all the remaining pouches that were attached to his outfit, and then moved him to the far side of the bed. More shadows there, and once Garrett was tucked under the blankets and his head settled on a pillow, Basso extinguished the candle closest to him, quietly moved his chair near the base of the stairs that led down here, and resigned himself to a long night. It wasn't as if he'd been going to get much sleep tonight anyway.

What in the fuck had put Garrett down like this? He knew Garrett wasn't in good shape, but he also knew that the thief had always taken good care of himself and didn't consider weakness in the same stupid way a lot of other thieves did. The way Erin had. If he'd gone too far, he'd have stopped.

Right?

So what had happened, in the mere six hours since he'd been here last, to cause this? And he'd been running, _fleeing_ \- he'd been caught. Not counting some of the absolute shit that the Thief-Taker had pulled, Garrett almost never got caught. He wasn't infallible, of course, but even when he did get spotted, Garrett didn't run like that. Shadows hid the man like physical shrouds. It was honestly a marvel that Basso knew he'd never understand, let alone replicate; it was a hallmark of the best thieves in The City which ones could melt into darkness like that. Garrett was a master of it - Erin wasn't too far behind. _Hadn't been._ There were a few others in The City who could do it (Ardan, Linnea), but none like Garrett.

And he was a clever man. If he'd been spotted, he would have dodged and climbed a building and hidden. He had never had a problem losing the Watch's trail before.

So what had happened? Why was he here? Why had he come sprinting in like a terrified rabbit only to pass out?

Gods' bells, this was a _situation._

Garrett wasn't going to be happy when he woke up.

"Yeah. That's an understatement." Basso sighed, rubbing his face. Honestly, he wasn't even sure how Garrett would react to discovering Basso had pseudo-stripped him; but there was no way that Basso was going to let the man sleep it off wrapped up in weapons and cloak and whatever trinkets were in his pouches.

From what had Basso had felt while he'd manhandled Garrett, it hadn't been all that much. That a compulsive pickpocket like Garrett had come back with nothing but the actual target item would have been enough to make Basso worry, if he hadn't been able to feel the reason for it through all Garrett's leathers. His harness had been cinched up to its tightest, and while it wasn't yet loose with the buckles so close together, it was a near thing. The last time Basso had cared to take note of every detail he could garner just by looking (when Garrett first returned after the accident), they'd been three or four notches down. Before that, another notch again - on the comfortable side of bigger.

Basso paused.

Actually, on second thought, he was quite sure Garrett had altered the climbing harness since he'd last seen it. There were more notches now - it went tighter than it had ever been intended to go. The chill that flew under Basso's skin had nothing to do with the warm summer breeze that drifted down his steps; Garrett had made the harness adjustable to allow for ups and downs in his own weight and size. It was intentional - it had to be. His leathers held a mild elasticity in their own right, and could be comfortable and form-fitting while maintaining a bit of give. The harness had to spread Garrett's entire weight and safely dangle it from a rope, had to suspend him perhaps indefinitely without cutting into his body or risking injury or damage despite extreme strain. Basso had seen Garrett leap from buildings with nothing but a thin braided rope and his climbing harness to keep him out of Red Jenny's claws. The harness _had_ to fit correctly.

But Garrett had allowed for healthy changes. That he'd had to add more notches just to ensure it kept doing its job meant he _knew_ he was too thin. Too light. What the hell was going on that Basso hadn't noticed? Guilt gnawed uncomfortably in his chest. He'd not seen Garrett eat often, it was true - and he never drank anything someone else gave him - but the few times it had happened hadn't left Basso with the impression Garrett had any trouble with it. Daresay, when he was given the opportunity for a nice meal, Garrett even savoured it the same as any man.

That he hadn't been eating lately was obvious, but… _Ya old guttershite._ Basso was an idiot. He should have picked up those subtle signs before it had ended up this cascade of fuckery. How? How had he missed something so obvious?

Well… that Garrett rarely let anyone touch him might have hindered it. It was only putting him to bed that Basso had seen the reality of how thin he'd gotten.

 _That's where his shit-lordly smirk went. Fuck me._

The flutter of anxiety and guilt didn't ease as the night wore on. Basso kept one eye on the stairs, ears open, waiting for the self-righteous clomp of Watch boots or the whisper of one of this thieves. As dawn began to break, Basso finally got up, stretched his stiff legs, and set his chair back behind his desk. The light was starting to filter in through the window, weak and grey right now but promising a clear day. While the back corner of bed Garrett was tucked into would be free of the sunlight, Basso still pinned the small blanket across the window to keep it dark, and then hesitated; studying the sleeping thief. Still breathing. Basso had watched long enough that he could even hear it, now, ever so faintly.

On her perch, Gwendolyn warbled a morning greeting. Quieter than usual, keeping her wings folded in when normally the sleek black rook flapped them until Basso gave her a morning treat. She yawned as Basso approached her, beak clicking shut. The sound was quiet (Basso knew for certain), but it seemed to echo in the cellar, louder than Garrett's ghostly breaths.

"Stay here, feathers," Basso murmured to her, scritching just behind her beak for a moment and then picking up a scrap of bread leftover from (very) late dinner. It was tough and stale now, but she took it from his fingers - without biting! - and crunched it up all the same. A soft warble. "Screech if anyone but me comes down here, right?"

Another scritch, letting Gwendolyn rub the side of her beak against Basso's fingers briefly, and then he was locking the cellar door behind him and making his way up into the Burrick proper. Drathen was already in for the day, setting up glasses and making sure the kitchen was ready. The pub was, admittedly, technically a front for Basso's fencing and criminal dealings, and didn't turn nearly a big enough profit to warrant staying in business in its own right, but it made a nice side gig. Honestly though, Drathen was probably the biggest profit it had ever made. He was the Burrick's chef and barman, and had been since her grand debut.

When Basso came in, Drathen set down the glass he was cleaning, and walked around to him. "Basso. You slept yet?" Basso just shrugged back. It wasn't like he couldn't get by on no sleep if he had to, but it took its toll on him, and fast. Always had. Fuckin' night owls. Drathen jerked his chin back towards the door. "Get some kip, Basso. I can take care of the old girl."

Waving a hand dismissively, Basso leaned against the counter. "Yeah, gotcha. First though, I gotta place ya first order of the day. Jug of water, two glasses, and breakfast that'll keep." Drathen raised an eyebrow at him, and didn't move. For a long moment, they just stared at each other - a war of attrition. Anger coiled in Basso's chest, wet and hot, but he did his best to swallow it. He wouldn't win this battle. He never did. A moment later, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Got a guest."

Drathen offered Basso a lewd grin. "Oh? And here I thought the only tail you could get was Gwendolyn."

Offering a snarl, but Basso wasn't really offended. The snarl was pretty much ruined by a snort of laughter all the same. One foot in the shadows and all, but Basso weren't no thief. He couldn't survive in his business without having friends - in high places, literally and figuratively - in low places, where they had their ears (and everything else) to the ground. And nearby, whom he could trust. Drathen fell into that last category. He'd been in on the gig for years, didn't care. Probably thought it was funny when someone stuck it to the Watch, the blighter. The fact Basso cut him an extremely generous paycheck probably helped.

All the same, he knew Drathen wouldn't snitch him.

"Don't be stupid. Why settle for women when you can get coin? Besides, you know I look after my lifters. Family and all that shit." A joke, to be certain - he'd protect his thieves sure, as long as it was safe and they weren't inordinately stupid _(Nikol)_ but there was only a few he'd go that far for.

Drathen laughed; a rich, content sound. T'was a rare man who was truly happy in The City, but Drathen had never been anything but. Sometimes Basso swore he was simply high at all times. It was the only reasonable explanation. "Sure, sure, Basso. Must be one mighty fine lifter you got down there in your bed." The grin still there, grey eyes gleaming. Another snarl, this one lacking the snort, but Drathen just waved both his hands and laughed again. "Give me ten minutes, Basso. You can take down breakfast, get some shuteye you tottering bastard, and maybe I'll even set Graves to keep watch on your door."

At the sound of his name, the dog perked his head up from where he lounged behind the counter, hidden from view of patrons and Watchmen alike. A low _whuff_ drifted into the air. A dopier hound Basso had never seen; his skin folded in too many places and his ears flopped either side of his head. Not to underestimate the creature - Basso had seen him give a wicked bite to those who threatened his master - but Drathen always trained his hounds well and this one was stupider than most.

"Keep that fleabag outta sight," Basso called after Drathen as the man vanished into the Burrick's little kitchen. "He'd soon as invite the damned Watch in than bite their feet off."

Laughter floated back out. "Graves! Black Tax!" The dog sat up sharply and growled. Not _at_ anything in particular, it seemed, but his hackles were up even as he remained sitting, teeth gleaming in the early light and lingering candlelight from Drathen's arrival shortly before dawn. Even knowing Graves wouldn't bite him, Basso felt the unease that a snarling dog always brought. "Good boy. Lie down." And a piece of chicken sailed unerringly through the kitchen door towards the dog as he obeyed. It was snatched out of the air and all but inhaled.

Basso shook his head. "Yeah, yeah. I already got a guard, Drathen. Keep him around to intimidate the dregs."

Soon enough, Basso was heading back down, juggling the tray and the key to the cellar door, and then he was taking his plate (Drathen had given him two) and stretching out on the battered couch that helped shape the alcove his bed was in. Separation screens lined the back of the couch, the bookshelf delineating the rest of it. Basso couldn't see Garrett in the dimness, even if he twisted around to look, and that would be enough - he hoped - to keep Garrett from freaking out when he did wake.

The plate was still half full, balanced on the far edge of the couch, when Basso knocked off.


	3. Bad Decisions Taste Strangely Like

**Cinnamon. The chapter title is _Bad Decisions Taste Strangely Like Cinnamon_ but this site insists on character limits for literally everything =/**

 **Crossposted to AO3 (it's a bit ahead of this, updating schedules are a mess)**

 **In which Basso will take whatever victory he can get.**

* * *

It was too warm, wherever he was. Warmer than… ticking. Clock. ...tower? Home. He was hot and sticky against his skin, and the second skin, and something tight and confining again over that. It didn't smell like home either, a heady scent of oil and paper and flame and… musk.

Okay, too far. Garrett opened his eyes, pushing himself up on elbow to take in his surroundings. The lack of ticking had him on edge already; the ticking was the sound of safety, but sometimes the cockwork still stopped working during the days. The altogether different smell of this place meant he was detangling the arm not bearing his weight, even as he blinked his eyes open and took in the room, searching for a threat or something he recognised.

A bookshelf loomed to the left of the bed, separation screens fanning outwards from it to seclude it; a candle was lit on the other side of the bookshelf, showing off intricate stonework and ragged couches. On the shelf was a scattering of papers and boxes and unlit candles, and- two shelves down, almost within reach, Garrett's bow and quiver. His climbing harness sat next to them, the buckles glinting faintly in what light carried through.

Further out, through the artificially narrow passage that connected the bed to the rest of the room, there was a desk. It was equally as messy as the shelf, but laden with many more loose sheafs of paper, a pair of leather-bound books, and two shining candles.

A soft _caw_ caught his attention. There, next to the desk - a tall perch, and a dark black shape settled upon it. Faintly silvery whiskers - no, feathers - bloomed around the base of its beak. A bird- a _rook-_

Gwendolyn.

"What?"

He was in Basso's cellar. The anxiety eased with the realisation, although it didn't help the weirdly prickling feeling of realising he'd woken up in Basso's bed and couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. At least it was still dark outside. The blanket had been pinned across the little window, but sunlight looked different behind it. He can't have been here too long.

Gwendolyn warbled and there was the sharp rustle of wings as she took off from her perch. Automatically, Garrett held out his hand, fingers slightly curled, thumb tucked against his palm, index finger up; a makeshift perch. Like she did at the Clocktower, she landed on his hand, rubbed the side of her beak against his finger, and then she settled; shuffled her wings once, let all her feathers puff out. They slowly flattened back down again as she cocked her head and eyed him.

The ache made itself known as Garrett untangled himself from the blankets, relieved at the touch of cooler air against his throat and hands and- feet. _He stripped me._ Yeah, that was weird. It wasn't as if he didn't trust Basso not to hurt him, he just liked to keep his distance from other people. That they might harm him if they got too close wasn't even necessarily the reason, but Garrett always felt better with a certain radius of empty around him. Some nameless birds not included.

It wasn't exactly a single ache, but it permeated his whole body until he felt like one big bruise. Even just the movement required to sit up, stretch out (Gwendolyn's claws dug into his fingers even though he tried not to move her too much) made his heart rate pick up, and he closed his eyes to steady his breathing. Nothing like the awful sharp pain of last night, or the metallic fear that coated his tongue as the spotlights found him, but-

Garrett jerked, half trying to stand. It didn't really work on the bed, the surface uneven and giving way under even his scant weight, but Gwendolyn dug her talons in, wings flaring open, and then let go of her now unsteady perch. She did a quick circle and landed on the second top shelf of the bookcase, but she _screeched_ as she did.

Not daring to grab anything, Garrett melted back into the corner of the bed, pressing against the stone wall. Only now that they paused did he realise the floor above him was bustling with footsteps and the low constant chatter of voices. One rang a little louder than the others - still indistinct, but Garrett recognised the tone. When he heard the loud clink before Basso opened the door, and then again before Basso even turned towards him, Garrett realised the cellar had been locked.

Pocketing the key, Basso turned towards his bed. His gaze went to the bookshelf before he squinted into the shadowy corner Garrett had retreated to.

"Garrett? You're awake, yeah?" And for a long moment, Garrett couldn't make himself respond. It felt like a hand around his throat, keeping him silent. The ache in his body was constant, but it was quiet. He would be slow and tender until it healed, but it wouldn't prevent him from movement. The sharp searing wetness behind his Primal eye was a different matter. It bubbled as Garrett fought for his voice.

Gwendolyn cawed, an indignant noise, and swooped down to perch on Basso's head. Basso let out a resigned sigh.

"Yeah. I'm up." It was forced, and even to Garrett it sounded cold, but it had taken enough effort just to get the words out in the first place that he didn't bother justifying his tone. Equally as forced, he leaned forward out of the deepest shadow, and then he picked his way across the bed - half crawling and half butt shuffling and why in blazes did Basso even have his bed pushed up against the wall anyway, getting across a mattress this big was always a pain in the ass and not even Garrett, not even _Erin,_ could make it look graceful - and got to his feet.

The stone was a welcome chill against his bare feet.

Scowling, Basso took half a step closer, studying Garrett intently. The urge to back away reared its head in full force, and Garrett was suddenly hyper aware of the bed against his calves. The little scratch of guilt was back. He knew Basso wouldn't hurt him. He was still a little more than arm's reach away, and Garrett was ten times quicker, even in pain. Basso not only wouldn't, he couldn't. Physically. Garrett shoved that thought away.

A huff, and Basso folded his arms. "Ya look terrible, Garrett." It almost stung. It was probably true, though, considering how he felt, how off-kilter and fractious. "When did you last eat?"

"... When I got up this evening." It was easier to speak, the phantom hand around his throat starting to loosen, but everything still felt…. Garrett kept an eye on Basso, but he picked his way closer to the bookshelf and started redressing. Harness first - cinched up to the new, narrow eyelets he'd put in, ignoring the ripples of frustration and fear and self-loathing that flooded out at the reminder. He was trying to manage the consequences of the Primal worsening, and it was the best he could do. At least the harness could still be fitted to him properly. If he'd just left it, refused to acknowledge the deterioration, then he would be in far more danger.

Basso reached up and Gwendolyn hopped from his head to his hand, watching as Garrett gave a light tug on the harness to ensure it was sitting right, repeated the action at different points, in different directions, and then wrapped the scarf around his neck, secured his cloak around his shoulders. He eyed his bow for a moment, and then left it. He knew he wasn't going anywhere soon - Basso would demand answers. Basso _deserved_ answers. Instead, he sat on the bed, tugged on his boots and laced them up, and then made sure his gloves were clipped back into place. Even unarmed, he felt better.

All the same, he left his hood down. It was too warm in here.

Basso didn't come any closer, but he was squinting down at Garrett once more. "... Garrett, that wasn't this evening. It's tomorrow. Ya slept through the day." Even, flat tone. Unusually inexpressive, even if Garrett didn't always pick up the expression. Controlled - too controlled. Almost hollow.

It spread from Basso to Garrett, opening in his chest. _Tomorrow._ It wasn't that it was _still_ dark, it had gotten dark _again._ His hands closed in his lap, fingernails digging into the leather. There were little pricks of blood that had dried on his finger pads, and fresher dots on the inner edges of his index and middle fingers where Gwendolyn had dug her talons in.

Where had those other injuries come from?

"... What the hell happened out there, Garrett?" Strained, now, after the stretch of silence when Garrett didn't respond. Basso dropped into the chair behind his desk, running a hand through his hair. He looked… tired. His face was drawn, dark little smudges visible under his eyes. Had he slept at all while Garrett had been passed out in his bed? Another scratch of guilt to add to the collection.

After a moment, Garrett went back to staring at his hands. "... I don't know." It grated to admit it, his chest tightening painfully, but he didn't even remember coming here. He'd stolen the comb, and gotten to the bridge… somehow… and then… Garrett remembered the shouting and the firelight, he remembered the gleam of a crossbow bolt. His left hand ached. He remembered running, and then he remembered the blue shine of the Primal and the pain that went with it, echoes of panic…

Safety. He'd been looking for safety.

"You don't know."

Garrett sighed, rubbed his face. The black smudges that stuck to his fingers as he pulled away reminded him he'd been geared for thievery, and he grimaced - the kohl would be smeared all over his face by now. "I…" Glanced sideways at his bow, itching for the weapon, but all too aware that there was nothing to defend himself from. "I slipped up. Had to run." And sudden cold filled his chest, like he'd been dunked in ice water. His eyes shot up to Basso's. "I didn't lead the Watch here, did I?" He was going to kick himself if he hadn't even _lost_ them before coming here. Basso was his friend, and he was a good fence, but even he couldn't get away with housing the Master Thief. Harlan already knew that they were connected - he'd taken Basso in order to get information out of him regarding their relationship. If he knew just how far that friendship went… Well, nobody deserved the kinds of things the General would do to them.

There was something strange in Basso's gaze. A sharp, glinting thing that didn't seem angry at all. _Pain._ The coldness seeped out into Garrett's limbs. "Nah. Lost 'em good before ya got anywhere near here. I figured that was deliberate."

This time, Garrett looked away.

"... I ain't never seen ya like that, Garrett. You got here looking like Red Jenny herself was after you, 'cept I know you'd have just laughed in her face. You were _terrified._ And then ya just…" A vague, sweeping gesture, blowing out the rest of his breath. Gwendolyn cawed quietly, flapping her wings. "What happened."

Not a question. Garrett felt his shoulders tense at the command, and for a split second he wanted to flee, but he forced it down, took a deep breath, made his hands uncurl. He still couldn't look up. "... I don't _know,_ Basso."

The strange sound finally dragged Garrett's gaze upwards, concern spreading out over the cold feeling like a thin skein over too much liquid. Basso was on his feet again, hands clenched at his sides. "It ain't the fucking Primal again, is it?" But there was no uncertainty in his tone. Why would there be? It was the same answer Garrett had given him every time he asked about his missing year.

"It's been getting worse." It was time to admit it. _Admit it. There's something wrong with me._ He'd known for a while. He had to stop trying to push through it like nothing had changed. He was going to get himself killed. The hand closed around his throat again. Garrett swallowed and hissed softly, trying to shake the feeling. He hadn't felt fear like this in a long time. It took him back to being young and helpless; it bubbled in his gut like boiling sewage. Toxic. "There's…" Caught, stopped. Garrett gritted his teeth and tried again. "I can't control it anymore."

 _That counts._

Not exactly what he needed to say, but it was close enough. Basso knew him better than anyone. He'd understand what it meant. He had to.

Whatever interpretation he'd expected Basso to have, he wasn't ready for the _snarl._ Gwendolyn screeched indignantly and took off again before landing on her perch. Basso paced for a few steps, stopped, shook himself, paced back again. It was only when he glanced towards Garrett and grimaced that Garrett realised he was watching, stock still where he sat on the edge of Basso's bed.

Carefully, the movement more controlled than Garrett had believed the man capable of, Basso strode back to his chair and sat in it. His hands stayed on his thighs, fingers dug in, shoulders quivering with tension. Had Garrett misread him entirely? Had he said entirely the wrong thing?

Ever so slowly, he started inching closer to his bow.

"... Fuckin' Primal," Basso muttered venomously. "What do you mean, you can't control it anymore?" Controlled again, less hollow and more furious, but held tight.

Garrett continued the slow quest to be armed again without alarming Basso further. "I've told you about the Primal energy in my eye. I can use it to… augment my skills." Basso nodded, gaze locked on Garrett's. It was hindering how much movement Garrett could make. Deep down, he still didn't believe Basso would actually do anything to him, but it didn't stop the sickening anxiety from the violent response. He'd been unprepared. _Complacent._ The fact remained that if Basso _had_ wanted to hurt him, he'd have been utterly at Basso's mercy. "... I can't fully control it anymore."

It came out easier, the second time. Maybe he'd understand now.

Basso took a sharp breath in through his nose, held it, let it blow out. Closed his eyes. Garrett darted at the chance, slipped his quiver and bow in swift, practiced movements. By the time Basso looked at him again, he was seated on the bed - not quite in the same place - and fully armed. The wrinkle that creased Basso's brow did not go unmissed.

"..." This time, Basso looked away instead. "How long?" Garrett tilted his head slightly, not understanding the specifics of what Basso wanted. "How long has it been outta control?"

Now, Garrett shrugged. "It's the Primal, Basso, it's always been out of control." The glare that met his snide comment was not pleased. The tension slithered down Garrett's spine. "Look, it was always painful if I overused it. It's just been… getting worse. There's no need to look like that."

A mistake. He'd made a mistake. The rage that lit in Basso's eyes was undeniable; recognition fluttered through Garrett's chest. He'd seen that anger before - when he'd told Basso to cut Erin. That he already had. It caused a tremor in Garrett's chest, his heart skipping a beat; that had been the only time Garrett had ever been truly afraid Basso would never speak to him again. It had taken two months for Jenivere's next visit. But even as he remembered that, the tension eased a little and Garrett no longer held his hands ready to grab his bow. Basso had been _so_ angry back then too, and he'd never done anything remotely violent towards Garrett. A chair or two had suffered his wrath in Garrett's place.

"You never fucking told me it was hurting you."

Voice _low._ He hardly sounded like himself. Taking a deep breath, Garrett reminded himself again: Basso was trustworthy. He was safe here - as safe as he was anywhere.

"I try not to use it. It wasn't an issue." Maybe he was pushing his luck. Maybe he should just let Basso have at it.

Another low little snarl, and Gwendolyn cawed in response. She was upset. Probably hadn't felt this kind of tension in the air before. "So it's an issue now? If ya can't control it, why use it?"

"It… doesn't work like that." Oh crap. He was really going to have to actually explain it, wasn't he? He'd never actually given details on how the Primal worked, on how he focused. It would sound batshit, and Basso wasn't exactly keyed up on the Primal knowledge. He knew that it existed, that it was some form of energy, and that it had all but killed Erin. He knew it had been the reason for Garrett's disappearance for a year. He knew-

It struck Garrett all at once. Basso knew that the Primal had been the reason for such a big chunk of his segment of the hellscape The City had become. That he'd lost Erin (they were friends too, right? Garrett wasn't sure Erin had friends, and he was fully aware of the irony in that thought); that he'd thought he'd lost Garrett. This anger wasn't directed at Garrett - it was the Primal.

Garrett sighed, but at least the fluttery tension in his chest eased off. He rubbed his face again, and then ran a hand back through his hair. Grimaced. Needed to wash it. "... I can… see certain things, when I look through the Primal. I can't see certain… other things. Like light." Or shadow. Basso's eyes narrowed, and then widened in understanding. "When it first started, I had to concentrate on it. Now… sometimes I can't turn it off. It's getting worse."

And he _hated_ that it almost sounded plaintive, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it in the right words. There was something wrong with him. Garrett gritted his teeth, jaw clenching, and then immediately regretting it. The pain sparked up behind his right eye, smouldering like the last embers of a fire even while the rest of him still ached. He flexed his left hand, trying to distract himself, to do _something_ constructive. After a few moments, the stiffness was already noticeably less.

"... You said it hurts ya." Garrett just nodded. If it was anyone else he'd never admit that, but at this point refusing to do so was just lying, and Basso deserved better than bald-faced lies. "Is that why you ain't been eating? I know you added more notches to that harness."

"Eyelets." Automatic. Something nitpicky to zero in on, something he could fall back into sass with. Garrett knew himself well enough to know what he was doing. Defuse and escape. If he derailed the situation, then it was easier to climb out of.

"What?"

"Well, technically only the metal rings are the eyelets, so I suppose you're not entirely wrong, but-"

"Trickster's tears, Garrett. I don't care about the metal eyes-its." That was an old curse. Where had Basso picked that one up? ...Which was _definitely_ the pertinent question. "Is that why?"

Sighed, a breath that Garrett couldn't be sure hadn't been stolen, because for half a second the room swam with blue light. He pressed the heel of his palm into his eye. "... Yeah. Constant migraine does wonders for your appetite. You should try it sometime, Basso, maybe you'll get back in shape."

"Har de ha ha." Sarcastic, but Basso definitely wasn't focusing on the snippy reply. It was too much to hope for, Garrett supposed, that he might distract the man. "You thought maybe to pay the apothecary a visit?" A little indignant, maybe even waspish, but Basso already knew the answer.

Garrett scowled at him, but he was fully aware he didn't cut a very intimidating figure - not when Basso had put hands to him and felt how delicate he was getting, not when he still had one hand dug into his eye because it hurt. "What do you think, Basso?"

"I think that worrying about that shit screwing with ya senses doesn't fucking mean much when you can't even handle a simple job right now."

Flat. Probably not meant as an insult, but Basso had never pulled his punches before. Garrett lowered his hand, wincing as his eyes caught the candlelight, and looked away. Basso sighed softly - the anger drained out of his voice.

"Garrett… So we should deal with this Primal shit, but first we gotta get you back on your feet. There ain't no point going after it if ya just gonna hurt yourself. So, start with an apothecary, get you eating again. We can work on the other shit afterwards."

It sounded so _reasonable_ when he said it like that. It didn't stop the creeping feeling of nausea as he considered willingly drugging himself. "I know a good chemist. I can get you something in the next hour, and she won't ask questions. Won't answer them neither."

Garrett's stomach dropped. Basso wanted him to- _now?_ He accepted that Basso was going to needle him about it, and if Garrett was honest then he was probably right - dealing with the symptoms and consequences first before going after the cause - but it didn't make the thought of impairing himself any more appealing. He couldn't make the climb up the Clocktower in that state, it would be suicide. In all likelihood, that meant staying here. A thousand reasons that was a bad idea sprung up, and the burning sensation slid out from behind his eye, moving across his face, following the scar. Quietly, he hissed.

A warble from Gwendolyn. "... Garrett, if I thought I could leave ya to just eat more, I would. You ain't ever been stupid enough to neglect yourself," unlike some other thieves, Erin's face flashing in his mind, "so clearly this thing is hurting you enough to stop you." Teeth gritted, but Basso was still right. It had taken a few months before Garrett had given into his decreased appetite and actually cut down on his meals. A few months, and a few too many times vomiting.

It had been years since Garrett had pushed himself hard enough to vomit, but the exertion required to do his work in combination with the pain spikes had become overwhelming. So Garrett had stopped eating in the evenings, and only nibbled during dawn, before going to sleep. He hadn't always remembered.

"I have no intention of drugging myself, Basso." Dark, almost growled - he cursed internally. Basso was right, he needed to do something.

The tension was back in his chest all the same, making it hard to breathe. He trusted Basso, but… This was an open cellar, locked or not. Hidden in the corner or not, Garrett disliked being somewhere so accessible in the first place. Being here _and_ being high, unable to defend himself, made the tension turn to panic. Garrett swallowed it, clenching his hands against the tremor that threatened.

"Piss off, you don't." Snapped. "That Primal shit isn't gonna fix itself. It nearly killed Erin already, and I ain't gonna let it kill you." An altogether different anger, now, vicious and dark. "First thing is putting some meat back on ya. And clearly you need something to take the edge off."

Or he wouldn't have gotten to this point in the first place. Part of Garrett desperately wanted to give in - let Basso look after him. _I'm not okay. I can't control it and I'm not okay._ But it made the knot of panic in his chest balloon, suffocating from the inside out. If he wasn't self-reliant then he wasn't worth a damn. Why the hell would Basso look after him if he wasn't worth his weight _(more than, I weigh nothing)_ in gold?

 _Because Basso cares about me personally._ It was an uneasy thought, squirming in under the growing breathlessness. _Because Basso isn't just here for the loot I bring in._ Not much better, flexing his hands, gaze turned away from him.

"I…"

This time, it sounded like pity in Basso's voice. Garrett's hands tightened in his lap. "Stay here. You'll be safe here. Gwen'll give a yell if anyone but me is coming anyway. Door'll be locked. I'll be back in the hour."

Basso got to his feet, stretched a little, gave Gwendolyn a scratch, and left without another word. The door was clicked locked behind him.

For a long few minutes, Garrett just sat in silence.

He had options. The first - and he was doing his best to resist it, hands laced together in his lap - was to just leave. The door was locked but he fit through the window (there so many advantages to being small, even without the weight loss), and they both knew the lock didn't even qualify as a minor obstacle. Not that Garrett particularly wanted to pick the lock to Basso's cellar; he was very good, but locks were finicky and picking them often left damage even when done right. Garrett just didn't care that everybody else might have to get theirs repaired or replaced.

Or he could stay. There were a dozen other options in between, fluttering through Garrett's mind like jagged-winged butterflies, but in the end they all condensed into staying, or going. _Running._ Garrett stared into nothing, thoughts swirling. If he stayed then Basso was going to make him take whatever illicit substance his chemist whipped up for him, but if he left then not only would the problem continue, but Basso would be angry.

Worse, Basso would probably be hurt.

Garrett sighed and dropped his head into his hands; he was alone. Only Gwendolyn was here to see his indecision. Stay or go, be drugged or stay sick, be made vulnerable or… stay vulnerable.

Sighing again, Garrett took off his bow and quiver, set them beside him, and threw himself back onto the bed. He could go and avoid the drugs - and the way his senses would blur until he couldn't tell them apart - and the dimming of the headache that he'd had so long he couldn't even remember what it was like without it. He could flee the fear and tight panic at the idea of being here, and being so vulnerable and losing all judgement and coordination, and being completely at Basso's mercy.

Or he could stay. Basso wouldn't hurt him - he could finally relax (once he was drugged it wouldn't matter that he was vulnerable anymore, because he wouldn't care), he could live a while without the constant headache.

It was as appealing as it was terrifying.

Only after a few more minutes considering it, and Gwendolyn warbling softly (to herself? Did birds get bored?) did Garrett realise the other problem. _Stupid. It took you that long. I can't keep this up._ If he stayed, then Basso would expect him to _keep_ taking whatever drug he came back with. The whole point was to get him back up to a healthy weight, to the point where he could work and exist without being so dangerously weak that even a basic theft left him exhausted and - in this case - sloppy enough to get caught, weak enough to pass out after a simple run.

But… _Stupid, stupid._ He should have done it differently. He should have stopped working instead of stopped eating. He should have- _Should have, should have._ It didn't matter now. _I can't keep this up._

That thought circled around, louder than the others - devouring them.

Eventually - how long had it been? Garrett shivered realising he couldn't tell, that his internal clock wasn't working - he was shaken from his brooding by Gwendolyn shrieking. Her wings flapped, though her talons gripped her perch tightly and she didn't catch any air, and the gravelly call rang in the small, stone room. Snatching up his quiver and bow, Garrett crept back across the bed as quickly as he dared, trying to be silent. Groans he knew were hidden in the mattress but couldn't remember the locations of - _Stupid, you're losing your edge- Fuck that, you've lost it_ \- went up around him, and he was suddenly grateful that Gwendolyn's caws covered them up.

The rook went quiet as the key turned in the lock with a click. Garrett held his breath, pressing himself further back into the shadows. Basso hadn't lit the candles by the bed, giving Garrett as much darkness as possible; gratitude welled in his chest at the unexpected thoughtfulness. It was a bubble under the rising panic and whirling confusion. Who had a key to the cellar that wasn't Basso? Gwendolyn wouldn't have alerted him if it was Basso (he did, admittedly, have a very distinctive tread), but nobody else should have the key to that door.

It came open silently, and a man with soft brown hair and loose, warm linen clothing came in. One hand balancing a tray that held both a jug and a plate and somehow didn't tip, the man shut the door behind him - left it unlocked - and then set the tray down on Basso's desk. He squinted towards the bed, but Garrett watched his eyes skate over him without pause. _Can't see me._ The panic swelled into relief.

"... Hey, you up? Basso told me his thief wanted some food. About time, too - I was about to clock out for the day. Night. Eh, whatever. You didn't eat breakfast, so I assume you were asleep all day. Wild shit, sleeping during the day." He shook his head, the candlelight dancing on his copper skin. "Ignore that. Anyway, I brought dinner for you. Are you seriously not going to come out?" And he waited a full minute, squinting into the shadows, but otherwise quite patiently.

Garrett stayed right where he was, motionless. His heart was slowing down a little, as much as the pain behind his eye allowed, finally recognising the man. Drathen had been at the Burrick for as long as Garrett could remember. He was, by all accounts, a good man - he knew Basso trusted him. All the same, Garrett didn't know him. He felt less threatened by the man's presence, knowing that he had been with Basso for so long, but it wasn't enough to make him reveal himself.

 _Don't show yourself. Stay out of the light._ He'd learned oh so very fast that failure was akin to suicide.

Eventually, Drathen shrugged. "Eh, whatever. Tell Basso he's got bad taste in women, thief." And he walked away, paused with his hand on the door handle. "...Oh- Eat that this time. I'm not wasting good ingredients on you if you're just going to send them back up."

Shut the door behind him, locked it, walked away. Garrett followed the sound of Drathen's footsteps all the way back up the stairs and then back behind the Crippled Burrick until they faded completely. Gwendolyn warbled at him softly. Her head tilted, eyeing the tray of food that Drathen had left on the desk; her beak clacked. With a sigh, Garrett pulled himself out of the shadows, making his way back across the bed into the half-light, and then off completely and fully into view. "Oh, you want some?" Amused; the thought of having the rook eat his food and trying to convince Basso that it had been him was a good one. Much better than the others circling him like carrion crows. "Here." Eyeing the plate a moment, Garrett picked out some of the rice and offered it to her. She plucked it from his palm delicately, squishing the pieces to paste in her beak before swallowing, carefully avoiding nipping him.

When she figured there was none left, she gave his fingers and affectionate nibble, warbled, and set about grooming her feathers. Garrett scratched her head gently. It was easier, looking at her - hurt less than looking in the direction of the candles. "Basso's going to be beside himself when you die." Sighed. Jenivere had been bad enough, and Basso had been at odds with the magpie. He made no secret of his love for Gwendolyn. "Working with him is going to be a nightmare."

Which was true, but the idea upset Garrett a little as well. He'd been attached to Jenivere too, even if he tried to deny it. When Gwendolyn went, the world was going to lose a damn good bird.

All of which was depressing as hell, but ultimately a distraction that he was happy to keep thinking about. Gwendolyn cawed at him quietly.

"Alright, alright."

Garrett turned back to the tray, half-closing his right eye as the light struck it; sharp, pulsing pain shot back through his head, bounced in his skull, and made its way down his neck. Even the thought of actually chewing and swallowing the food - simple rice and some kind of poultry, with a sauce that Garrett supposed would smell pleasant if it didn't make his stomach turn - was utterly nauseating. Instead, he picked up the glass, poured half a measure of water into it from the jug, and studied it with a frown. Carefully, he lifted it to his face and gave it a sniff. No untoward odours came off it, no signs of the myriad poisons he could detect that way. A quick glance at the candle through the glass yielded no sign of discolouration or particulates and a spike of pain that settled into throbbing behind both eyes and all the way around his skull. Eyes narrow in response, Garrett considered Gwendolyn.

"You know, Basso will kill me if you die." But he said it conversationally and offered the glass to her all the same. She warbled, scraped one set of talons against the glass like she might hop to the rim and perch, and then took a beakful of water.

Garrett slunk back to the bed to sit in less light. He left his bow and quiver in the far corner where he'd taken them and sat cross legged, cloak pulled around his side and into his lap. For a few minutes, he just watched the rook for any sign of pain or paralysis, or anything else that poison might do. She eyed him back, flipped her tail, started grooming her feathers. Eyed his plate and hopped a little closer to it, looked back at him. He scowled at her. Eventually, he had to accept the obvious; there was nothing wrong with the water.

He sipped as Gwendolyn warbled again, and it seemed to satisfy her. "You're just fletching waiting to happen, you know that?" he asked her mildly; she cawed, flapped her wings, and watched him with one eye as he sipped again. The water was pleasantly cool, and while the actual action of swallowing was uncomfortable it soothed the nausea a little. He took another. "Happy?"

She warbled. Sometimes Garrett wondered if she actually understood him, or if it was just a happy accident. Maybe she was playing them all for fools. Being a pet was certainly a comfortable life. Gwendolyn didn't even have a cage.

Garrett filled the glass full again when he was done, and returned to his position cross legged on the bed. At some point Gwendolyn flew over, perched on his knee - her weight wasn't inconsiderable, and he felt a little unbalanced by it but it was an almost comforting feeling, the bird providing companionship without offering threat - and she dipped her beak into the glass when he lowered it.

So long he spent sitting, thoughts chasing themselves in circles as he debating staying or going, that eventually Gwendolyn gave another soft caw, fluffing her feathers out and shaking herself, snatching Garrett's attention. She gave a self-satisfied warble, dipped her beak for some water, and then Garrett heard the footsteps. A tread he recognised - heavy and slow. _Comfortable._ He was still on the bed in the half-light when the lock clicked and the door silently opened. Basso took a glance around as he came in, and visibly relaxed at the sight, although the lines around his eyes tightened a little when he spotted the untouched food.

Garrett tried to push away the stab of guilt and irritation. It was a miracle the smell alone hadn't done more than cause a dull ache in his gut. _That's probably not better._ A little sigh at the realisation; Basso was right. He had slept all day, and had barely gotten out of bed tonight, and he still couldn't stomach food - not even simple food.

"... You know why I don't want to take whatever you've got," he forced out. Get ahead of the game here - if he beat Basso to it, then he could still feel like he had some control over the situation. Hopefully… it would make it easier.

Basso blinked, taken aback, and then sighed. "Yeah, cause you're a paranoid bastard. No, I get it," at the scowl Garrett shot at him, "but you couldn't fight off a one-legged pigeon, Garrett. You're in no state. So shut up and let me stop you from getting yourself fucking killed."

Hackles up at that, hands tightening on the glass, but he fought down the response because Basso was right. _He's right._ Telling himself that didn't make much of a difference, but Garrett tried to pretend that it did - he was dangerously weak, dangerously sloppy, dangerously slow. Forgetful. He hadn't even _considered_ that the Watch patrols might have changed in the time it had taken him to steal the comb. Once he'd seen their routes, he'd just assumed they'd remain and put the thought out of his head.

He sipped the water for something to do, distracting himself long enough to put down the anger and fear bubbling up in his throat. Basso glanced between him and the jug at the movement, seeming surprised; he'd probably never seen Garrett drink anything before. It was a rare occasion indeed that he drank anything someone else offered him. For the most part, Garrett collected rainwater and drank that - it was one of the only things he could guarantee hadn't been tampered with.

"Okay."

Voice low, forced out between his teeth, a little afraid that the glass might shatter in his hands as he gripped it even tighter. Gwendolyn rubbed her beak against the leather of his leg. It was almost worth it to see how Basso's entire body relaxed, almost slumped. Garrett couldn't quite tell if it was relief or shock. Might have been both.

Stepping over to the tray, Basso produced a thick package from somewhere on him - _I have got to ask him about his pockets_ \- and set it beside the jug of water. He didn't question Garrett, something the thief was immensely grateful for. Probably didn't want to risk Garrett's nerve. It was a good call; Garrett was quite sure that he'd back out if given half a chance. His skin itched as Basso unwrapped the package and revealed a gleaming glass bottle. It was clear and unmarked, corked and sealed with wax like expensive wine, and filled with a clear liquid that sparkled the faintest red in the light.

It suddenly struck Garrett that such a concoction at this time on such short notice must have cost a small fortune.

"I figured you didn't want to have to inject the damn stuff." Garrett suppressed a shudder; Basso had guessed correctly. Memories not his own flashed through his mind, sending icy skitters under his skin, and pain flickered in his right eye for a completely different reason than the Primal, needle-sharp. Pulling away the last of the wrapping, Garrett saw him set down a much smaller glass, almost like an open vial. "She said one of these in a glass of water was enough. No more'n twice a day."

Garrett did some quick mental math. Tried. His thoughts kept spinning away, peeled back by agony, but eventually he settled on the roughest estimate he could. The whole bottle would last months at that rate of consumption, assuming Garrett needed and used it twice a day. This stuff was that potent? Garrett re-estimated the cost of it; make that a _large_ fortune.

Part of him wondered if he should pay Basso back for that. It was an odd, alien sensation - parting with coin was a completely unfamiliar action. He stopped for a few seconds, feeling out the idea before rejecting it. The faint associated queasiness at the idea Basso would willingly waste so much money on him was far outweighed by the reflexive revulsion at the idea of paying that much himself. He was the Master Thief. He didn't _buy_ things.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Gwendolyn cawed unhappily, took some more water from Garrett's glass, and then took off and landed on Basso's shoulder. He reached up absently to pet her, seemed to relax a little more as she nibbled his ear.

"... Do ya want me to-?"

"No." Sharp, almost defensive.

Unfair, but it was bad enough that he was considering- _agreeing_ to this folly. Garrett didn't think he'd be able to handle watching Basso drug him, voluntary or not. At this point, he wasn't even certain how voluntary it was. Would Basso even _let_ him leave if he tried?

Even more unfair. Of course he would. Basso had never been shy about calling Garrett (and everyone else) out on what he saw as stupidity, but he never forced anyone to do what he wanted. All the same, Garrett didn't want to have to remember Basso drugging him. For another few seconds, they just stared, and then slowly - reluctantly - Garrett got to his feet. He set the glass down on the tray, turning away from the direct light, and refilled it. Tried not to let his hands shake. Wasn't sure if he succeeded. Basso was watching, the gaze like a razor at Garrett's neck, hair on end, but he didn't dare comment on it. Couldn't trust that his voice would come out okay if he tried. Filling the little measuring vial was a lot harder than he'd hoped, even if the wax broke and peeled off easily enough and the cork came free with a satisfying _pop._ His hands were definitely shaking as he did, and a few drops spilled over the edge before Garrett tilted the bottle back up.

For a moment he froze, aware that Basso was still watching, and then he just sighed, set the bottle down, corked it. The liquid had a faintly sharp scent, almost like cinnamon. It made the pain in his eyes sharper; the whole of his nose ached ferociously, as if the bone was melting under his skin. Nausea roiled in his stomach, closing his throat.

Once again, for a few moments, Garrett just stared at the little vial. A thousand curses sang in his mind as he realised he was really doing this - he was actually going to tip this unknown drug into his glass and consume it, willingly. Of course he was. Basso was still watching.

"... Fuck this." Muttered, but he picked up the vial and emptied it into the water, setting it back down half a second later. As fast as he could. No second-guessing himself - except, of course, he could always just tip the water out. "Fuck you in particular." Aimed at Basso, although Garrett didn't take his eyes off the glass.

It wasn't so big of a glass. The shaking was blatant now, but Garrett picked it up and sculled the whole thing in a few gulps. Bitterness chased the drink down, the sharp cinnamon-y smell eclipsing his senses, and even as he set the glass back down he gagged on it. Reflexive - _poison_ \- but Garrett gripped the edge of the desk and closed his eyes, trying to keep his breathing even. He was breathing through his mouth. His heart raced in his chest, a caged bird. _Best not name it Gwendolyn then._ The thought was hysterical.

Basso's voice was distant. "Hey, easy. It'll take a few minutes to kick in since you aren't injecting it, but maybe you oughta sit down. She said it shouldn't fuck with your mind too much, but it'll screw up your balance. Garrett? Hey, can you hear me?"

An edge in there, but Garrett couldn't concentrate on it. His breathing rang in his own ears. He could feel his heart, beating frantically, like pressure on his ribcage. It ached.

However long he stood there, eventually he felt his heart start to slow down. _Under control._ And then slower, his breathing easing into something more leisurely than it had been in a long time. _Not my control, though._ The low chuckle broke through. He liked things to be under control, but had he ever actually specified his own? He couldn't remember. Funny. _All fine. Fucked to the void but it's under control. Not mine. Not Basso's either. Some chemist. Don't know her name - call_ ** _her_ **_Gwendolyn._

 _All under Gwendolyn's control._

"Garrett?" An new edge there, to Basso's voice. Maybe he should try some of whatever this shit was. Maybe he'd chill out. "Hey, come on. Sit down."

Garrett opened his eyes, still gripping the desk. It was a good thing he was, because when he looked up and turned his head to Basso, the whole room spun around him and he tilted. Arms closed around him, panic spiked for a split second and he twitched, and then it settled back into something dull and pleasantly heavy in his chest. "You're upside down."

A sigh. Anxious? Couldn't tell. Might not matter. "Over here, Garrett." And then muttering that he couldn't quite make out; his ears buzzed quietly. It was… not unpleasant, actually. He was set on the bed, and then gently lowered as he leaned. Sprawled now, head propped up on one hand, laid out on his side watching Basso move back towards the desk,

"I don't buy things."

"What?" Baffled, stopping what he was doing to look over.

"I don't buy things. I'm not paying you for that." He pointed with his free hand at the bottle, and then studied it more intently. Why was that? He hadn't noticed the faint patterning on the glass before.

The light. He was studying it in the light. There was a faint pressure in his right eye, a reminder of the power that lay coiled there, but it didn't hurt. Nothing hurt.

 _Nothing hurt._

Unbidden, laughter burst from his throat, and Basso took a step back. Nothing hurt. Garrett knew his thoughts were muddled, spinning and darting, glittering dragonflies he couldn't quite catch hold of, but it didn't feel so different to how he'd been feeling these past months. His thoughts were muddled and there was this constant nagging sensation in the back of his mind, like he was missing something, forgetting something - but lying on his side like this, comfortable on the bed, the room stayed steady and he could still see and hear clearly, and the pain was but a memory and distant not-entirely-unpleasant pressure in his Primal eye.

Maybe he still couldn't - _shouldn't but totally could_ \- work in this state, but it was no worse than the pain. It was much better. It didn't hurt and- the smell of the food hit him suddenly and his stomach growled. _Starving._ When was the last time he'd eaten a full meal?

No. Scratch. When was the last time he'd eaten?

"Basso. Pass m-" The bowl was held in front of him, a spoon offered right after. Garrett sat up, blinked dazedly as the room did a dance, and then took them as it settled. "Thanks." Without hesitation, he dug in.

From his peripheral vision, he watched Basso sit down slowly in his chair, and then stretch out and relax. The sigh was audible over the faint buzz. Was that a real sound? Garrett wasn't sure. It didn't matter much - if Basso could hear it or not, who cared? Gwendolyn fluttered over, hopped closer, and warbled quietly. Garrett offered her a half-hearted glare. Then, despite himself, he scooped a little rice and offered her that instead.

"Hey, hey, don't spoil my bird," Basso scolded him, but for the first time tonight he was smiling. "She'll get fat."

Garrett shrugged, watched Gwendolyn knock the rest of the rice off the spoon and onto the blanket, and then scooped another mouthful for himself. "Like owner like pet."

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too."

* * *

He was careful to step in time with the ticking of the massive gears. His boots were thick leather and fitted, and while they were quieter than the stiff noble shoes he wore around the court, they couldn't hide his tread completely. He would have killed for some soft leather or fabric, but he was meant to be here on Official Royal Business; besides which, Corvo didn't hold with the illegal dealings that lent themselves to such things.

Leon would die before he let Corvo down.

So, he made sure to step in time with the immense ticking. It made for slow exploration, but at least it was quite dim in here. There was evidence of a fire once burned in the large brazier on the upper floor, and unlit candles littered the tables. A workbench and bookshelves dominated the rest of the floor, picked out in the faint yellow-grey of Dark Vision. Little shimmers, holding the barest hint of green, picked out what looked to be an impressive set of leatherworking tools, and next to them fletching equipment.

Leon's fingers twitched, tempted to steal the bundles of feathers, but he let them be. He wasn't even supposed to be out exploring like this, so he couldn't risk taking anything. Further down, kept quite orderly in a series of low drawers, was a collection of other tools and crafting gear. Leon wasn't sure what had been made with them, but he hoped it was also impressive.

Slowly, he made his way down the stairs; one at a time, steps and heartbeat settling into rhythm with the ticking of the great clock.

The floor below shone. Trinkets littered every available surface, organised into groups. Only half of them made any sense to Leon, but his breath caught all the same. Faintly blue light made the whole lower floor glow, a thousand things he could line his pockets with. A quick glance around, and he caught no echo of yellow in his Vision. No shudders in the air that indicated sound or movement. Abandoning his stealth, Leon dashed down the stairs and examined the collections.

Several sets of rings, and Leon started seeing why they were grouped such as he studied them. One set all adorned with various skulls; another with pretty clusters of gems and gold filigree. A set of bracelets that reared into snake heads made his skin crawl, but they shone prettily in the faint blue. Two more sets of brooches - a series of lovely butterflies and one more of elongated flowers- no, _three_ sets of brooches, the third a collection of carved faces. Maybe they were pendants? Leon would need light to be certain.

And fully… _eighteen_ shining city plaques in neat rows. Despite himself, Leon whistled. A truly impressive haul. Absolutely wondrous. Many dozens of other things winked faint blue around him. He hadn't seen a stash of treasures this impressive since-

Leon's heart stopped. His Dark Vision flickered out, the faint warmth in the rune on his back flickering out with it. Pitch blackness met him without it; he wouldn't have the faintest clue there was several fortunes sitting innocently in front of him if he hadn't come across the lair with Vision active.

 _"Outsider's tits."_ Whispered, mixed awe and panic. "This must be- Oh, shit, oh shit."

Frantically, Leon reactivated his Dark Vision, feeling the warmth sear across his rune, and spun around. Blue glitters flashed by, the treasures winking their temptations. He caught sight of another bookshelf in the alcove under the top floor, another table, a bed in the far corner. They didn't matter. No gleam of yellow, no sound, no movement. Leon sprinted up the stairs, clambered onto the wide open sill, and reached out his hand to aim. Thumb and forefinger extended in an L-shape, he closed one eye to get a better defined point, aimed at the next roof. For a moment, his rune burned white hot and then he blinked to the next rooftop over. It dulled back down to a dim warmth, and then nothing as he deactivated Dark Vision again.

Light enough out here to see without it. Nowhere near as dark as inside the clock tower. Couldn't risk Corvo picking up on his sudden flush of emotion with their Arcane Bond active, couldn't risk-

He darted from one rooftop to the next, moving mundanely now to avoid giving Corvo his exact location, only to pull up short. The twisted mask met him, protective wires covering the mouth like stitches in a wound, the lenses glinting menacingly in the hollow eye sockets. Normally, it was a face of comfort - now, Leon gulped.

"H-hey, Lord Protector. N-nice night!" Laughed; too high pitched. Fucking stammered. _I'm doomed. Outsider save me._

Corvo folded his arms in silence.

For a few moments, Leon just looked back up at him, forced smile painful, and then he slumped and groaned. "Look, I haven't taken anything! I was just exploring! The buildings here are- It's like they were _designed_ to be travelled by rooftop! So much better than Dunwall- No, I mean- Fuck. Just- fuck."

Finally, Corvo let out a soft sound. It couldn't be called laughter, but Leon all but collapsed in relief. It was about as close as Corvo had gotten since they'd been given this assignment. "Come, Leon. We must return. You should not have wandered."

"I know. I'm sorry, I'm just…" Not capable of coming up with a good enough excuse. Boredom was a terrible reason to endanger the mission Empress Kaldwin had bestowed upon them.

Corvo shook his head and started to lead the way back to Auldale across the roofs. It wouldn't do to be seen wandering outside of the area - or indeed, outside the grounds of the manor General Harlan had assigned them. The dim gold glow of Corvo's marked hand was hidden behind his gloves; the rune burned every time Leon blinked after him, but he was used to the flashes of pain by now. They didn't slow.

"I understand. Everyone is restless; this isn't a pleasant assignment. Political messes never are - and this Harlan… is quite unreasonable."

"We're not here to catch his criminals, and we _especially_ aren't here to facilitate their torture!" Leon exclaimed, the words bursting out of him. A moment later, he shied away. He didn't expect Corvo to be upset with the sentiment, but it was a dangerous opinion to voice - here, in hostile territory, with a hostile host, and only the other Messengers for safety. "... Sorry, Corvo. I just don't see why we should do this. I don't want to do this."

Corvo was silent. In his silence, they made their way to the street level, to the river, took a running jump and blinked the rest of the way across, and then ran back to the manor where the Messengers were housed. Only when they came in the back door did Corvo finally speak.

"I agree. I won't assist the General in torturing a man I know nothing about." A strange edge to his voice there, and Leon's heart sank.

"... So…?"

"So I will learn about him."


	4. The Greatest Losses We Inflict

_**On**_ **_Ourselves._  
** **Again with the damn chapter titles.**

 **In which magic cannot fix everything.**

* * *

Six days had gone by in relative peace and routine. It was strange, confined to the cellar instead of the Clocktower. Strange, but strangely… pleasant. The faint sound of Basso snoring at nights while Garrett curled up on the couches and alternated between sketching, doing Basso's oft-neglected paperwork, and eating more than he really should had quickly become comforting - not quite like the great ticking of the clock, but similar. He had yet to come down from the Burrick tonight, but it was early still. The last puddles of dusk light hadn't faded, and happy bustle and chatter drifted down from above.

After the fourth day, Garrett had begun experimenting with the cinnamon-y drug. With a full stomach, the drug didn't scatter his thoughts quite so much as it had the first time, but although it largely left him with his faculties it lowered his inhibitions to almost nothing and killed the helpful paranoia that kept him safe. Sometimes it was a little hard to remember why he needed to hide if Gwendolyn screeched; thankfully, even intoxicated on the stuff, Garrett was a creature of habit. Despite leaving him with his senses and most of his mind intact though, a full dose reduced his ability to balance to naught. Basso (or Drathen, and Garrett tried hard not to think about how willingly he'd shown himself to the man the second time he'd come down with food) needed to be there to hold him steady if he even wanted to think about moving around. On the other hand, the dizziness didn't cause any nausea, and the full dose completely negated the pain that had dogged him since the Primal had festered in his eye. It was a good feeling to be able to eat properly again without making himself sick. Already, the harness sat two notches looser against his body. It was as good a measure of progress as any.

A double dose of the drug, taken on a full stomach (Garrett had no desire to actually harm himself), had turned out to be an exercise in shame. While it hadn't seemed to have any long-term effect on him, Garrett's memory of that particular morning was a blur. He'd taken it as his second dose of the day, when Basso was waking up and would be able to assist Garrett in recording the results. He remembered snatches of what had happened afterwards, Gwendolyn cawing and Basso cursing and laughing in equal measure - flashes of blue and then feeling sick and then waking up that night feeling tacky and damp and disoriented. Basso's notes detailed a series of behaviours that Garrett was not keen to ever repeat (he absolutely did not fight a rook for a bookcase, that had to be fabricated) and then an hour spent in misery vomiting, and then passing out. In the margins of those recordings, Garrett had scribbled a new note: DO NOT REPEAT.

A half dose of the drug, taken a day later on a full stomach, had produced a much more desirable outcome. While it hadn't completely erased the pain the Primal caused, it had dulled it down into a distant, manageable ache and only made Garrett a little wobbly on his feet rather than stopping him from staying upright at all. Walking in straight lines might be an issue, but he could navigate on his own and think clearly enough to work. Basso wasn't convinced, but Garrett felt quite confident that he could operate on half doses fairly safely, so long as he didn't try anything too drastic or complicated. Against strict orders, he'd snuck out and come back an hour later with a nice little haul of Watchmen's picked pockets. He'd split it fifty-fifty with Basso to try and placate him. The fence had been beside himself when Garrett had slipped back in the window, coins and trinkets stashed in every pocket. All the same, the results showed good promise; he'd been able to stick to the street level shadows, stay quiet and unseen, and not get caught pickpocketing despite the copious attempts at it. He'd been in pain, but it was dull and quiet; only when he focused did it exacerbate into something problematic.

Mentioning that hadn't gone over very well. Basso was right - he shouldn't be using it voluntarily when he still couldn't control it (and as they'd found out during the first couple of days, even a full dose didn't ease the pulsing agony when Garrett was focus flared) - but he was testing the parameters. If Basso was going to insist he take the drug - and that… was getting easier and easier - then Garrett wanted to know everything he could. If only Basso would give him the name of the damn chemist.

Another half dose that morning, taken on an empty stomach, hadn't offered any additional analgesia than before, but Garrett had spent half an hour curled up on the bed feeling woozy and disoriented and distinctly unhappy. The dizziness was a little worse, and even thinking about focusing caused little ripples of pain the fluctuate out from his eye. He'd been grateful when Basso had insisted they had enough data and made him eat. Once the food had settled, he'd felt better.

This morning, as Basso started waking up nearby, Garrett set down the sketchbook and contemplated the bottle where it sat innocently on the shelf. They'd used fully a finger's width of it so far; barely any of it. One dose didn't last quite twelve hours. Perhaps ten. Garrett sometimes took his second dose slightly early in the mornings, if the pain was coming back especially bad, or if he intended to go to sleep sooner than usual. The two tended to coincide. Today, it had returned as a wet throb behind his right eye, and faintly painful pressure inside his skull. Unpleasant, and he wasn't especially hungry, but it was tolerable. He'd told Drathen to just bring him something light, and he quietly nibbled away on a hunk of bread. It had been warm when he'd first picked it up. Cool now, still soft and vaguely pleasant on the tongue, but he ate slowly all the same. No nausea, not yet, but it wouldn't hurt to be cautious about it.

Having been nigh on constantly medicated for a week, Garrett wanted to take a break. Not that being pain-free wasn't nice, but it was starting to feel like reliance. The idea crept from thought to thought, quietly unsettling. Garrett wouldn't be dependant on anything except himself; he refused. Just a short break. Basso couldn't be upset about it. After all, he was still _here._ He'd been eating and recovering well. Loathe as he was to admit it, Garrett felt good. Better than he had in a long time. The harness was still a couple notches too tight for his liking, but it was nearing the low end of his original safety net. Soon enough, he'd be out of the eyelets he'd had to add.

Besides, he was still experimenting with it. Given continuous dosing for six days, he needed to know how he would fare if he missed one. He wasn't going to take it for the rest of his life; the thought made his heart skip a beat, a soft shudder going through him. Once he was recovered enough, he was going to find out more about the Primal. In all likelihood, it meant heading back down to the ancient library under the House of Blossoms.

Well… maybe he could use Basso as a distraction. He had a feeling the man wouldn't object so much to the idea in that case, and it wasn't as if he didn't have the money to fund it.

It was still a strange, prickling feeling, the thought of _spending_ some of his amassed fortune, but… it would only be the coins. In terms of material wealth, Garrett was pretty sure he might be the richest man in the city. Anything he wanted for, he simply stole anyway, so he'd never had cause to spend the money he was paid for his work. He just liked being paid. _Greed._ The General's voice echoed in his head, but Garrett shrugged it off. What was so wrong with a little bit of greed? So he liked shiny things, so what? And the rest of his collection - he wouldn't even need to touch the special sets of jewellery or the City Plaques or any of the other innumerable items that had caught his eye. Garrett had enough coin stored away in the Clocktower to fund any trips Basso might want to make to the Blossoms for the rest of his life.

And besides… it wasn't as if he couldn't simply steal it back later. Spending it to ease his way into the underground library was worth every coin.

A snort drew his attention; Gwendolyn warbled, yawned as she woke with her master, flapped her wings, rubbed her beak through her feathers. With a creak of the mattress, Basso sat up, rubbing his eyes. Gwendolyn warbled again, drawing Basso's attention - he shambled out of bed, mumbling incoherently, and padded heavily over to the bird. A scritch, and Basso offered her a scrap leftover from his dinner. Once she was satisfied, Basso yawned again, stretched, and turned.

"Hey, Garrett. How you feeling?" Still a bit mumbled, not fully awake yet. _Sorry, Basso._ Garrett knew only too well how fast Basso would wake up when he heard something he didn't like.

And he wasn't going to like this.

"I'm fine. I'm going to skip this morning's dose." Matter of fact. Say it like it is, don't ask permission. _I don't ask permission for anything._ He was prepared for the splutter, and even the glare, but not for the sudden bloom of concern in Basso's eyes. He was getting good at reading that; it had happened far too often for his tastes.

Basso came and sat on the other couch, cast a cursory glance over the paperwork and sketchbook and little series of records from Garrett's experiments. "Is this just another fucking experiment, or is it… going bad?"

An interesting way to phrase it. Garrett shook his head. "Relax, Basso. I just want to get an idea of any withdrawal symptoms before I _have_ to stop." For any reason. He wasn't going to rely on it forever, but even in the meantime things could go wrong. The bottle could be lost or broken or stolen - Garrett could end up having to skip doses because he was elsewhere, or not safe enough to risk it. He wasn't going to stay cooped up in Basso's cellar for much longer, and they both knew it.

A sigh, but Basso didn't protest. Probably knew it was futile. He'd had enough protesting the earlier experiments. "A'ight. I'll come down and check on ya while you're sleeping, take some notes if you like."

"Thanks, Basso," Garrett smirked, sitting back and crossing his legs. "It's almost like you care." Teasing. He knew Basso did, even if he couldn't fathom it. Then again, he had broken into the City Keep while it was burning down just to rescue Basso from the Thief-Taker General. Maybe he could fathom, just a little.

Basso snorted and got back up to grab a change of clothes and head up to the Burrick attic to bathe. "Yeah, yeah. Can't imagine why."

* * *

She kept tripping on the dress. It wasn't that she was particularly unused to wearing a ballgown, but it had been sewn long enough that the skirts kept falling where she wasn't expecting them. What in the hell was this latest fashion anyway? Nobody needed so many layers, especially not in the middle of summer, and especially not if they didn't intend to steal everything in sight. Or maybe smuggle out a body. Annabel was fairly certain she could fit another human body inside her skirts.

 _Hm, mental note. Test that theory with Phoebe._

"Stop fidgeting," Keldin hissed to her, standing with her on the balcony. They overlooked the ballroom dance floor, although there was a distinct lack of dancing going on. Despite the title of Ball and the fancy clothing decorating every body in the room, Annabel was starting to think these 'Lords' had no idea what a proper ball was supposed to entail. In all honesty, that didn't surprise her. There wasn't a drop of noble blood to be found in these new leading houses - that, and their master was a fucking madman. She hadn't heard anyone sound that obsessed since Nathaniel had found out about sex.

A snicker. More's the pity that he hadn't been sent on this particular mission. Still, one look at Thadeus Harlan had proven that Nathaniel's brand of diplomacy would have sent the whole thing awry. "You stop fidgeting," she hissed back to Keldin. "Your clothes are just as uncomfortable as mine. And half as heavy."

A little twitch told Annabel that Keldin was a hair's breadth away from facepalming, but he resisted the urge and kept his eyes on the crowds. "I'd kill any number of these idiots to be in uniform." Muttered, just for Annabel's ears. She laughed. "But it doesn't matter. Lord Corvo said we had to play nice."

"You mean the _Empress_ said we had to play nice. I'm pretty sure Corvo would sooner depose this whole shitwalk and let her take control. It'd be about time. This 'Eternal City' has escaped the Empire for too long." Sighed, leaning casually against the balistrode and trying to convey mere boredom instead of simmering murderous intent. "Besides. You know Corvo says we shouldn't kill if we don't have to. There's bound to be non-lethal ways of dealing with this pathetic excuse of a government."

Keldin mirrored her snort. "Yeah, I wouldn't call this a government. Glorified personal army. Frankly, I'm astonished that the general populace haven't rebelled yet. If this was Dabokva- Heck, if this was _anywhere_ in Tyvia, they'd have all been dragged to the public square-"

"Stonemarket, I think," she interjected softly.

"-and executed by now." A pause. "Yeah, that sounds right. That's where Leon was exploring, right?"

"Lucky bastard." Muttered bitterly, shifting her weight against the balistrode, watching what looked to be a Watch Captain if she remembered how the pips worked here as he strode across the ballroom. The woman he approached looked like she wanted to die, but she curtseyed and offered a forced smile as he engaged her. "I can't believe the Lord Protector had to go out and get him. And he wasn't even punished!"

For a long moment, Keldin was quiet. She kept an eye on the Watch Captain in her periphery, but glanced at him questioningly. He met her gaze, looked back out over the ballroom, and sighed. "He's the newest Messenger here. And besides - can you really blame him? We're all losing our minds here."

Annabel hummed quietly. "Yeah, you got that right. That Harlan guy is a fucking psychopath. And he thinks he has enough control of The City to use it as a bargaining chip. As if we're just some especially well equipped thugs he hired to fuel his personal vendetta. Against some little thief! Who _cares_ about one thief? This place is a ruin waiting to happen. There's gotta be a million people who've resorted to lifting. Or, you know, taken it up while there's no stable law enforcement."

"I think we all know that it's going to come down to a military invasion. This mission is mostly reconnaissance, in the end. And trying get as much of the power that remains in The City on our side, so when we do invade there's not so much death." Quietly, frowning as he studied the crowd. He'd seen something that caught his attention. Trying to find it, Annabel followed his gaze.

"... I might be pissed at him, but Leon's right. This whole thing is a waste of time. We should get rid of Harlan and let Empress Kaldwin know this place just needs to be razed to the ground. Or- at least given some proper, solid rulership," she quickly corrected as Keldin shot her a quick glare. "I don't care why we're here, Kel. I'm not gonna help that psychopath hunt down some guy and torture him to death."

Now, Keldin's bright grey eyes fixed on her fully, something untoward shining in their depths. "Not even if Lord Corvo orders you to?"

Chills fluttered under her skin, and her heart jumped painfully in her chest, but Annabel held Keldin's gaze, trying to keep her own equally as hard. "Even if Lord Corvo orders me to. I'll kill any of these fools, but I refuse to torture anyone. I won't help someone do it. And _especially_ not the General."

Sighed, looking back across the ballroom, eyes narrowing. Keldin ran a hand through his hair, the light blond locks coming out of place as he did. "... I feel you, Annabel, I do, but… this is a diplomatic mission. We have to try and stay in the General's good graces."

"Or we could kill him."

Muttered, pouted, but Annabel knew better than to expect anything to come of it. Corvo wouldn't kill unless he absolutely had to - not even a shithead like Harlan. Sometimes it made her want to scream.

Keldin sighed. "See that?" he gestured vaguely, but she saw the swift extension of his index finger and looked towards where he was pointing. Letting out a delighted coo and straightening up as if in excitement, Annabel forced the smile across her face. Hopefully it didn't look as fake as the woman cornered by Watch Captain Dick.

"I see. Want me to handle it?"

A quick shake of the head, and finally a wicked little grin. "Nah. Let Leon handle it himself. See what he does." They glanced quickly to the far end of the room, where Corvo and the General _(Thief-Taker. What a hideous title)_ were quietly conversing and occasionally entertaining guests. Corvo wore his formalwear better than any of them, the gleaming peacock blue dinner jacket picked out with gold thread and the stars that denoted his status pinned to the shoulder. Matching pants and a slightly paler waistcoat were pretty, but outshone by the jacket. He didn't wear coattails, unlike many of the men assembled. They must still be in style in The City.

Well, it made sense that Corvo wore his clothes better. They were probably more expensive than anyone else's. Emily- Empress Kaldwin had ensured they all had serviceable formalwear for this trip. Many of the attendees had noticed - after all, Corvo cut rather a handsome figure - but he had steadfastly ignored it. Any attempts at flirting had been met with blank stares. Annabel shook her head as the woman currently with them tipped her head coyly. It must be nice, to have people throwing themselves at you. Even if Corvo rebutted them every time.

Across the room, Leon was talking to several Watchmen, gesticulating excitedly. The men nodded along, inserting gestures and comments of their own. It seemed quite lively a conversation. He too was easily visible amongst the native citizens; no coattails fluttering from his jacket, and drawn up in a deep crimson, picked out with silver stitching. The design was identical to Corvo's aside from boasting only a single star on his shoulder, as was Keldin's (flamboyant) mint green and silver. She envied them their suits. Back home, in Dunwall, she and Phoebe - and all the other Messenger women - were free to wear their formal suits as well, instead of these dresses. Whilst her violet and Phoebe's yellow were certainly beautiful, they were heavy. If it came down to a fight, Annabel was going to have to rely on Keldin to keep her safe until she could rip off most of the outer layers. At least they were allowed their matching single stars, albeit settled at their throats as if they were jewellery and not a sign of military rank.

"I can't _believe_ Corvo only let us bring one weapon to this thing." Hissed, running her finger along the inside of her silken violet gloves to check on the tiny lines of darts she'd hidden therein.

Next to her, Keldin shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well. This is supposed to be diplomacy, not an invasion. Nothing should happen today." Low, held too even. Keldin didn't believe it any more than Annabel did. She caught him shift his weight from one leg to the other - checking the dagger strapped to the inside of his thigh.

"Sure. Tell that to Leon when he whips out his throwing knives. Do you know how many he managed to sneak past Corvo?"

Keldin snorted. "Zero. Lord Corvo allowed him three. I can't believe three throwing knives counts as 'one weapon' but I had to pick between my daggers." Finally, the bitterness shining through. Annabel smiled to herself, then shrugged.

"Don't worry about it. Diplomacy, remember? Anyway, are you supposed to be up here? I thought I was on lookout until twelve. You've left Phoebe and Leon high- eh, low and dry."

A grimace, and grey eyes flashed to her pleadingly. "I couldn't take it down there anymore. These Watchmen are all idiots. Their wives aren't any better. This is the most scintillating conversation I've had all morning." Annabel sighed and shook her head.

"So you want me to trade with you already? Weak, Kel." But she pushed off the balistrode, subtly stretched, and gave her skirts a light tug. "Fine. Spot me, will you?"

A call of thanks followed her as she picked her way across the balcony delicately, and then down the curving stairs of the General's mansion. The balcony was just for show, but coming down the stairs in this ridiculous dress, already a touch unsteady on elevated heels - a new fashion that she hated, but Empress Kaldwin had insisted - was actually a mission in its own right.

Once she'd made it to the floor, she paused and swept her gaze around, trying to decide on a suitable group to approach. None jumped out at her particularly, and she wasn't allowed to hover around Corvo (or, more accurately, he didn't want them spending more time than necessary around the General), so eventually she approached a servant, picked a flute of wine off his tray with a murmured thank-you, and selected a spot near the far wall to observe. It wasn't mingling, and it was essentially a worse version of the task she'd just let Keldin take over, but fuck it. If any of these people wanted to talk to her, let _them_ approach _her._ She could play enigmatic just fine, thank you very much.

Pretending to sip her wine, she looked back to Leon. The servant Keldin had spotted had already reached his group, offered refreshments, and left them. Her eyes narrowed. The servant had been moving with far too much purpose - she'd picked Leon's group to approach specifically. It was unlikely the others had noticed it; Leon probably hadn't even realised, too engaged in his conversation. _Damn it, Leon. Pay attention to your surroundings._ Why had Lord Corvo chosen him for this mission? He'd had free reign to pick any four of the Messengers. Leon was an excellent combatant, good at stealth, had a scheming mind and had shown proficiency in many of Corvo's gifts, but he was too new. He hadn't been seasoned yet - and here he was, in the middle of possibly the most hostile environment in the Isles, paying nary a glance to the people around him.

She pretended to take another sip, eyed Leon's half-empty glass, and felt her stomach sink. **_Damn it, Leon._ **Not only that, but he'd either forgotten they were under orders to remain lucid, or he hadn't been able to think of a way to fake it under such direct scrutiny. She hoped to the Void it was the second one. That was a panic reaction - definitely bad, and it made him a liability, but it was at least understandable. Anything else was sheer bollocks-for-brains stupidity.

A quick glance up at Keldin confirmed he'd noticed; his gaze kept flickering to Leon, mouth drawn into a tight line. Annabel had to stifle the urge to make sure Corvo knew - he would have noticed. Probably before they did. Even so, it never hurt to be sure. Her heel tapped against the polished marble floor, too loud, too obviously anxious, but she couldn't help it.

This ball sucked.

She looked for Phoebe, trying to still her thoughts. Her bright yellow was harder to find than it had any right to be, but eventually she spotted the small Messenger tucked away in an alcove lined with plush couches, surrounded by fawning wives. Doing a perfect job, then. Phoebe was an adult, but she was unusually small - tiny enough that most mistook her for a child. It made for a mess at home most of the time, where the Messengers were well-known and recognised by their stars and, often, by face. Here, though, on mission… Phoebe let them assume it. Nobody had dared asked Corvo to his face yet why he'd brought a 'child' on a diplomatic mission, and they all preferred it that way. Sparring with Phoebe was fine normally - she was as skilled as any of them - but it was a nightmare when she used them as rage relief.

All the same, she let people assume her height dictated her age and right now, that meant the Watchmen's wives were clustered around her, cooing over her star and her accent and her dress, and all the while spilling citystate secrets.

At least _someone_ was doing their job right.

The day wore on, and Annabel found herself engaged with several Watchmen and their wives. More Watchmen than wives. Not all of them were married, of course, the The City still held the archaic practice of barring women from military work. (Or political work. Or any employment directly from the state, really). Even so, a large chunk of the wives still remained with Phoebe; she was settled on the laps of two of them now, stealing treats from their plates as they gossipped. Honestly, it was a wonder how blind people were. She was short, sure, but Phoebe didn't even go out of her way to act like a child. She just stayed a bit quiet, and they dismissed her intelligent comments as just being a well-learned girl.

Honestly. Disgraceful.

To be fair, Annabel had to navigate her own stickiness. The darts were a tempting weight in her gloves as a couple of the Watchmen flirted, and a couple more kept asking why she was on this mission. Was she Phoebe's warden? (Too young to be mother to that old a girl, obviously). The smile was painful as she brushed it off, shaking her head and stuttering like she was embarrassed instead of furious. Corvo's lover? _No._ She had to swallow any other response to that one. Ugh. Such a mess was that.

It wasn't until one of them implied that she should have stayed behind in Dunwall where it was safe that she really had to take a deep breath. _Don't snap the glass, don't snap their necks, don't use your darts. Don't cause a scene. The mission. Let Corvo handle it. Focus, Anna._ She offered them a polite smile and indicated the star at her neck.

"Actually, sir, I'm part of the Empire's military and serve under Lord Royal Protector Attano as one of the Royal Messengers." She even managed a curtsy in there, and prayed that her voice came out amused or coy or anything other than cutting. _Lord Royal Protector._ Well, it wasn't exactly untrue - she did serve Corvo, and he was the Royal Protector. It was just… more the Royal Spymaster bit that she served.

The looks she received made her tremble, suppressing the anger. These snivelling idiots thought she couldn't serve in a military capacity because she didn't have their wilting cocks to prove it? Maybe she'd cut them all off. Then nobody could serve.

One of them offered her a tentative smile. "My apologies, Lady Whitefield, but you cannot be serious."

They saw the twitch in her eye. She knew, because the one who'd spoken took a step back and glanced at his fellows. Taking a deep breath - and letting them see it, because if they knew she was angry then she'd make damn sure they knew she was better behaved than them too - Annabel set her wine glass down on one of the small tables dotting the edges of the room and forced out as nice a smile as she could.

"I am very serious, Captain Rhodes. This star is not simply for show. I would direct you to the same badges worn by my colleagues. In future, Captain, I would appreciate it if you refrained from slandering my rank, even if it is not from your own nation. If you will excuse me." A bow, this time, fuck the curtsy, and she pushed past them and made her way across the ballroom. Thumbs ran over her concealed darts, temptation pounding in her wrists with her pulse, but she resisted. _Don't cause a scene. Diplomacy. Fuck I hate this city. Fuck this city, and fuck its batshit leadership._

Annabel wasn't sure how long she stayed hidden away in the corner of the room, avoiding her duty to mingle and just observing. She was allowed to disobey certain orders if it meant following others. Mingling meant talking - it meant likely hearing the same comments over and over again. If she had to choose which orders to follow, she chose the diplomacy ones. She would stay quietly in her corner and not kill anyone.

It wasn't until she caught sight of Keldin's mint green coming closer that she realised she'd been glaring vacantly. _Oh god. I'm as bad as Leon._ But still, she drew herself up and met Keldin halfway, tilting her head. If he was down here, then either it was her turn back up on the balcony, or something had changed.

Judging by the stern expression and the quick pace, she guessed it was the latter.

"What happened?" she whispered as they got close. "We aren't scheduled for dinner for… what, three more hours?"

"Two," Keldin murmured back, and Annabel shoved away the way her heart sank. She'd slipped up so badly. Stupid prehistoric Watchmen secluded citystate fucking attitudes.

Even so, her fingers curled. "Shit."

Keldin shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Look, I don't know what's up, but something's… odd. The Captains have been moving in these weird patterns. I almost didn't notice. And the General's two Commanders? They're up to something. I don't know. Lord Corvo's summoned us."

Annabel resisted the urge to look around and instead offered Keldin a smile. "That's not great. I hope you brought your good dagger. Go rescue Phoebe, I'll get Leon. How drunk is he?"

Tentative; not sure she wanted to know. She hadn't been paying attention. _Outsider's eyes. I might as well be drunk myself for all the use I've been._ Keldin's grimaced answer was not encouraging. "Maybe it's best to leave him where he is."

"That bad?"

Annabel looked around now, searching for the other Messenger. She found him standing in a group of four Watchmen - not Captains, but some of the small group of favoured men who'd been invited. They were distinctive, in their simple black suits. Barely formal enough for a dinner party, let alone this event. Laughing and joking, but even as she watched one of them took Leon's mostly empty glass and replaced it with a full one.

"Worse. They've been with him for two hours."

Offering a grunt of confirmation, Annabel turned back to Keldin. "Leave him. We can't have that hot mess anywhere near Harlan. We can figure out what they're doing with him afterwards. And that idiot better _pray_ he hasn't let anything slip, because I will scalp him." Keldin winced, and followed Annabel towards Phoebe. She watched them approach, dark blue eyes stormy and grateful all at once.

"My deepest apologies, lovely Ladies," Keldin began as they got close enough, executing a walking bow with apparent ease. "It is with the most sincere regret that I must whisk our darling Phoebe away." Even as he did nothing of the sort, flashing a charming grin - might Annabel daresay even roguish? - as she beckoned Phoebe over. Yellow skirts swirling, Phoebe hopped down and darted over, grimacing the moment her back was to the Watch wives and they wouldn't see. They tittered in disappointment, but seemed suitably distracted by Keldin. Most of them, at any rate. Annabel didn't worry about the ones who didn't.

Watching Keldin charm for a few moments longer, she lowered her voice so it wouldn't carry. "You'll have to tell me if you heard anything interesting, but Corvo wants us right now. Kel noticed something odd about the Captains. It's probably related. Also, we're abandoning Leon to his drunken fate."

Phoebe glanced past them, tilting her head as she watched Leon be held on his feet by two Watchmen. "Mmm. Might be better to rescue him. I don't trust these people. He can't defend himself."

Not bothering to look again, Annabel shook her head. "I know, but do you really want that hot mess anywhere near Harlan?" Phoebe's face twisted into absolute disgust for a moment.

"Good point. Harlan _flirted_ with me."

"Phoebe, Anna flirts with you all the time," Keldin interjected as he returned to them, touching two fingers to Annabel's elbow for half a second. She nodded slightly, acknowledging it, and they followed Phoebe as she led the way up to Corvo and the General.

"Yeah, but I _know_ she's an adult. She's older than me! If anything, the scandal is that Phoebe flirts back."

They shared a vaguely disgusted look, shadowed in their eyes and kept off their faces, and then presented themselves to Lord Corvo and the General. Two flawless curtsies and a bow. Something dark hung in Corvo's eyes when they straightened and he surveyed them. He didn't need to say anything - they all knew what it was. Phoebe gave the slightest touch to the back of Keldin's leg, pushing seniority on him, and he cleared his throat.

None of the charming smile now. It wouldn't work on Corvo, and they rather suspected Harlan would find a way to be offended. "I sincerely apologise, Thief-Taker General. Our colleague seems to have forgotten himself in the festivities. We thought it best he be allowed to make a fool of himself with men more… of his calibre." Annabel held her smile through gritted teeth as Keldin spoke. Leon was a bit of a brat, but he was still far superior to any of these City dregs. It grated to have to pretend she agreed with such degradation.

A hearty laugh from Harlan. The grin was unsettling. "There's always one, isn't that right, Corvo?" The Lord Protector nodded, an irritated expression flashing across his face. For show. He was upset with the situation, Annabel could read it in the clasp of his hands behind his back and the way he stood at full height, despite the fact they all knew Harlan disliked how much he towered over them all, but he wouldn't show it like that unless he wanted to. Harlan shook his head. "Not to worry, my boys will take good care of him."

Was there something especially sinister in that statement, or was it just the normal level of menace Harlan spoke with. Annabel wasn't feeling particularly menaced, but her pulse jumped in her throat again and she had to focus on breathing steady. Phoebe took her hand, a picture of innocence, and _squeezed._ Swallowed the gasp of pain and squeezed back, forcing the smile to remain over her teeth, shoving down the revulsion she felt. Focus. _Thanks, Phoebe, for bruising my metacarpals._

"You're very gracious, Thief-Taker General." Corvo, speaking up, his voice muted and respectful but lacking the hint of subservience that Keldin's held. He was the de facto ruler of The City, she supposed. Corvo shouldn't be offering anything to the man but the pommel of his sword.

Harlan laughed again and waved a hand. "Think nothing of it." Grinned wickedly. Annabel's skin crawled. _Flirted with Phoebe._ Only Corvo's eyes on her and Phoebe's hand in hers stayed the murderous impulse. The man was sickening. And on top of it, he expected them to help catch a petty criminal and torture him to death, all for some absurd personal vendetta.

No, Annabel decided. Leon was definitely right. Fuck this shitshow.

"But, now that I have you all here-"

Movement, behind her. Muted, slow, but she finally broke eye contact with Harlan and glanced over her shoulder. The quiet chatter was slowing to a stop, and she was met with a sea of eyes. The Watch had moved around them, closed in - _watching._

Well. That was as ironic as it was disastrous.

Keldin gripped her other hand suddenly, tugging. She ignored it, scanning the crowd for Leon, anxiety mounting in her throat. _Ignore it. Don't panic. You can get out of this._ Even just three of them were easily a match for badly trained state law enforcement. And it wasn't just three of them - they had Corvo. No need to panic. She kept looking. Red, red… The only colour that many of the Watch had gone for. Motherfucker. _Look for the silver thread._ She couldn't find it. Where the hell was he?

The itch to activate her Dark Vision was overwhelming, but Keldin tugged her hand again before she could and she finally turned back. Harlan was laughing, freely - manically. How could his men not see that he was a fucking madman? How was this travesty of governing allowed? At Harlan's throat was the blade of Corvo's collapsable sword. Corvo stood behind him, twisting one of his wrists behind his back, holding the sword. Completely steady, no hint of hesitation. If Annabel hadn't known better, then she would have thought he was ready to execute him.

 _Well, so much for fucking diplomacy. At least Corvo made the call to break it and none of us snapped._

"I will offer you one chance, General. Release Lord Diamandis or we will be forced to retaliate." Cold, voice threatening immediate and merciless violence. Even knowing better, Annabel felt the shiver creep down her spine. It was followed by the excited heat - the diplomacy, all at once, had fallen over. This was a fight. She didn't have to hold back! _They've got Leon._ Darts appeared in her fingertips, and Keldin's free hand dipped into his pants pocket, ready to tug his dagger out.

But Corvo hadn't given the go ahead yet. The assembled Watch - there was more of them than had been invited, Annabel was absolutely certain - waiting with Leon buried somewhere in their depths. Desperate to watch for Corvo's signal, Annabel kept her eyes on the two men in front of her - but she heard the movement behind her, in the sudden quiet. Clothes swishing, a hundred tiny clicks. What…?

Harlan laughed again. "Men!" The clicks turned to twangs. Annabel had half a second to realise that she, Keldin, and Phoebe were standing solidly between Harlan and Corvo, and the rest of the Watch. Three consecutive bodies. _Meat shield._

The glow of Corvo's Outsider Mark was blazing blue-gold, and shone through his gloves. Echoey and thick, the whole ballroom turned misty blue and grey, and silence fell. Corvo's voice was distant, hard to make out.

"Move! We cannot fight this battle."

There was no room for argument. The order rattled in her teeth, and Annabel turned on her heel, yanked up her stupid fluffy dress, and kicked off the elevated shoes before taking off running for the doors. Footsteps echoed dimly behind her, and everything seemed to move like treacle. By the time she reached the exit, the four of them were running equal, side by side.

 _Four._

She skidded to a halt, twisted back towards the ballroom, yanked back as someone grabbed her arm. "No! Stop! Wait! We have to get Leon!" He hadn't moved, a glint of scarlet amidst the sea of blue-grey bodies, free from the constraints of magic as Corvo manipulated time.

Only now did she see the almost flat screen of miniature crossbow bolts that hung in the air, like a black shroud just starting to bloom from the Watchmen. Her skin went cold. If Corvo had hesitated, they'd probably be dead. No wonder he had called a retreat. Just like that, the truce had been ended, and if not for Corvo's gifts they'd be dead. _They'd be dead._ Annabel's breath caught in her throat, even as she allowed herself to be dragged out of the door. How? How had a man like Thadeus Harlan outplayed them? How hadn't they noticed?

 _How?_

Keldin's voice hung in her ears. "Anna! Anna, come _on!_ We have to move! Corvo can't hold this kind of magic for long!" It was distant, but she turned slowly to look at Keldin, stumbling as he dragged her, skirts getting caught under her feet. Keldin's dagger tore through the fabric as they ran, cutting off outer layers, cutting off colour until it was white, cutting it brazenly short. As the swaths and ribbons of fabric came off her, they spiralled into the air and froze in Corvo's magic. The Lord Protector was beside them, silent, face drawn while he kept them moving, made sure they didn't fall behind. The glow coming off his hand was so bright. It had to hurt.

Anna had seen him bend time before - several times during practice spars, to acclimate them to it, and once in the field. It was difficult magic. Keldin tugged her onwards, away from the mansion, onto the streets of Auldale and then blinking up onto a building. The strange wet heat of magic washed over her skin as Keldin blinked them both, a strangely constrictive sensation when not of her own will. He dropped to a knee once they landed, breathing hard, struggling to push himself up. Keldin was the most observant of them, the best suited to duplicitous spy work, but he was the weakest magic user Corvo had chosen. Blinking a passenger had consumed a great deal of his energy.

Beside them, Phoebe blinked Corvo up with her. His Marked hand was clenched, held away from his body and Phoebe's. How long had he already held it? How long that Corvo couldn't blink himself?

"Anna!" The voices rang in her ears, Keldin and Phoebe, screaming at her. "We're not far enough away! Come _on,_ Anna, snap out of it! We have to _GO!"_ Corvo eyed her as she looked back again.

"But…" Everything echoed in the suspension, distant and boundless all at once. "We can't leave Leon."

Pain erupted in her face and she shrilled, staggering back. Phoebe glared at her, hand still raised. Tears sprung up in Annabel's eyes despite herself, shock and pain combined. She didn't understand. Why were they running? They weren't far enough away, Keldin had said, but they were already too far. If they turned back for Leon now, Corvo would lose his hold on the magic and they would be amidst the violence when time resumed. Too dangerous.

Harlan had nearly killed them.

"But…"

Keldin grabbed her, yanked, took off across the rooftops as fast as he could manage. He was breathing hard, his hair lost in a wild blond halo, his jacket - and the star attached to it - gone. He didn't spare the air to urge her on anymore, just dragged her.

By the time they reached the Auldale Bridge, she was running on her own power. Keldin had blinked them both once more before Annabel had begun to use her own rune, and Phoebe had blinked Corvo across every obstacle. The blue-grey wash around them was starting to move. Sluggishly, as Corvo held it as long as he could, but the man was pale and sweating. More exhausted than Annabel had ever seen him. All from one bit of magic? Time, she supposed, was not something to trifle with.

Phoebe and Keldin didn't look to be much better. Blinking so many times in such quick succession would have worn Keldin out at the best of times, but he'd taken Annabel with him twice as well. Phoebe had more endurance, but she was blinking Corvo - three times her size - alongside her every time. Keldin and Annabel were either side of them, offering Corvo what support they could.

The river had never seemed so wide.

"I'll take him." Annabel's voice sounded like someone else's, a suggestion she hadn't realised she was making. "I have more range than you guys." Corvo nodded at her, and for half a second she just stared, dazed. _They'd left Leon behind._ Everything still seemed unnaturally _other,_ but she stepped back in time with Corvo, sprinted at the river right beside him, took off on the same foot. Midair, she reached for Corvo's wrist, grabbed it, realised he'd positioned himself so she couldn't touch his Marked hand, and blinked them to the far shore. Keldin and Phoebe popped in beside them a moment later.

"Hide."

Corvo's voice was rough, low. He sounded like he was in pain. Annabel realised she was reacting outside of herself; couldn't be sure where the action or the words came from. It was like watching someone else.

She pointed up at the buildings. "Phoebe, scout them out. There's bound to be one that's empty. Kel, help me. I'll blink us, just help me keep him on his feet." Phoebe vanished, even as the blue-grey slatescale world started moving faster. Distant sound began to come back, nothing more than echoey chirps for now. They didn't have long before time snapped back to normal. Corvo was leaning on them, more than she'd expected - they held more of his weight than he did. His eyes were closed.

 _Shit. Shit shit. We left him behind. Corvo's down. We don't have any time._

But they had more time than they would have without Corvo's magic. "Kel, ready."

"But-"

"No time."

She aimed and blinked and stumbled as they came down just barely on the wide wooden slats underneath a window. Phoebe had opened it but she had yet to return. It didn't matter. Even as Annabel and Keldin hooked Corvo's arms around their shoulders and heaved him through it, the magic cut out.

Sound returned in thunder, light and colour an assault after the muted blues. Half a second of shrieking sounded from within the building and then went silent. Corvo collapsed, his Mark going dark, and Keldin and Annabel staggered under his weight. When Phoebe came back into the room, she had shallow cuts in her palm. "Through here. Put him on the bed. We need to regroup." Tired, voice thin, but something jagged and steely in her eyes.

Annabel did as she was told. With Corvo down, Phoebe had seniority. By the time they came back from making sure Corvo was settled on his side, safe from choking on his own vomit or blood in a worst case scenario, and bundled in blankets, Phoebe had dragged the occupant of the elevated house into the main room and bound him.

"... Phoebe…?"

Blonde curls - darker than Keldin's - bounced as she shook her head. "Just unconscious. It doesn't matter. We're already criminals. Harlan's already decided that. We need to find a proper hiding spot. As soon as Lord Corvo wakes up, we'll move. He can recover there. This will only be safe for so long, and I don't want to continuously knock out a civilian. Who's got the most magic left?"

Annabel raised her hand. She wasn't on Leon's level, but she had more magic than Keldin or Phoebe to begin with, and she'd used less of it.

"Anna, stay here and protect Corvo." Furious. Phoebe was furious. All at once, the numbness fell away and Annabel was left with raw, painful rage that splintered in her chest. It felt like her ribs had cracked with it. Her hands clenched, and only when her fingers slipped did she realise the silk gloves were still in place. "Keldin… I know you're tired, but you're with me. We have to move fast. Harlan played us. As soon as we're safe, we can figure out how to get Leon out of there."

 _Leon._ It made Annabel sick, knowing that the General had him. Captive, by now. He was probably too drunk to even realise. _Drunk? Or did they drug him?_ Guilt clawed inside her chest, cracking her ribs out further. She shouldn't have judged him so stupid so fast. Any of them could have been drugged.

"Go. I'll keep Lord Corvo safe. Be careful out there."

She watched them go, vanishing from the outer ledge and leaving behind momentary twin heat ripples. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out a dart from her gloves, gave the civilian a cursory check, and pressed the dart into his wrist. He'd stay unconscious for at least six hours with that in his system, never mind how hard Phoebe hit him. Annabel untied him, laid him out on his side in the same position she'd laid Corvo, and fetched the spare blanket.

He was an innocent civilian. He wasn't responsible for this mess and he didn't deserve her ire. It still felt wrong, making sure he was at least somewhat comfortable, that he wasn't in danger, and that the wound bleeding on the side of his head was superficial. He'd be fine.

She blunted his pair of scissors cutting the fingers off her purple silk gloves, but it didn't matter. Flexing her hands, she returned to the main room, sat on the floor where she could watch the window and Corvo at the same time, and set about waiting.

* * *

The experiments were starting to get worrisome, but Basso put that aside and let Garrett do as he will. The fact was, the thief was _here_ and not fighting him. Honestly, Basso was amazed that he'd been able to get Garrett to cooperate in the first place. He'd half been expecting to have to wait until Garrett literally collapsed and couldn't do anything else. Thank the gods that Garrett wasn't a self-destructive moron - but Basso didn't even want to know how fucking terrible he must have been feeling to agree.

This latest one though… Basso understood why Garrett wanted to take a day off. He didn't even drink alcohol, never had - Basso wasn't sure he'd _ever_ tasted the stuff. Hated to be impaired, hated not feeling in control. It must be grating on him, being reliant on something, even if it was just potent medicine. And the reason he'd actually offered was pretty solid too. At some point, even if it wasn't forced on him before he didn't need it anymore, he'd have to stop taking the drug. It was important that they knew how that would affect him, what to expect, if Basso would need to be there.

Garrett had been asleep barely a couple hours now. So far, nothing untoward had happened; he was definitely a little restless, where a usual morning dose had him nigh on comatose until the afternoon, but nothing else terrible was happening that Basso could tell.

So, when a pleasant conversation with a jeweller who just couldn't hold his liquor was interrupted by the sudden shrieking from downstairs, Basso bolted to his feet.

"Eh, nothing to worry about! Just my mangy fucking bird. She'll shut up in a minute or we'll have a barbecue!" Laughter, a little that filtered through the cawing, but enough that Basso dismissed the patrons. Drathen could take care of it anyway. Fumbling the key, Basso ran out down to the cellar door, trying to ignore the growing fear in his chest. Gwendolyn hadn't stopped yet. Deafening, as he finally managed to get the door unlocked and slammed it open, stumbling in without bothering to close it behind him. The key sat heavily in the lock.

"Gwen! Hey, quiet, Gwen, wh-" The rook soothed at his command, but she was still standing on his desk, wings open, feathers fluffed out. Her beak was open - she breathed heavily, panting, panicked.

Garrett was writhing on the bed, thrashing, the blankets all kicked off. Low moans and whimpers escaped him, fizzing in the air, accompanied with half-formed pleas and desperate little _"No-"_ s. Visible even when his eyes were shut was a blue-green glow that emanated from his right eye, the light thick and pearlescent like smoke. For a moment, Basso couldn't move and then he jumped over, leaning one knee on the mattress, and reached out to touch Garrett's shoulder.

He let out a fully fledged cry when Basso touched him, like it was agony, and then he was flat against the far wall, eyes wide and staring. Light coiled from the right one, twisting and flickering like it was fire and smoke at the same time, and lines of pain creased Garrett's face. In his left glittered a blind panic. He didn't recognise Basso. Not yet.

Staying back now, Basso raised his hands. He could hear Gwen still panting behind him, open-beak breathing. Not good for anyone here, really. "Garrett… Calm down, Garrett, it's just me. Just your good old friend Basso… Nuthin to worry about." Anxiety in his chest - Basso was pretty sure it came through in his voice. Doubted that helped, but he couldn't stop it. Garrett was recovering well, well enough that Basso knew he'd head back for the Clocktower soon, but he was still fragile. Basso doubted Garrett really understood how fragile he was. It wasn't just about his body - his mind had been violated by the entire Primal shitstorm, and as far as Basso knew, Garrett had simply boxed it all away and pretended nothing happened.

"Garrett?" As soft as possible. Don't fuck this up and freak him out now. Basso watched as Garret stared at him, glanced unerringly at Gwen, looked back to him. The light in his eye didn't abate. Was he watching them through the Primal - _focusing, he called it_ \- on purpose, or could he not turn it off? It had looked… different, last time.

A low noise came from the thief, building so slowly and starting so quiet that it took Basso a minute to recognise the keening. It was the sound of loss. Something deep and fathomless and Basso's heart stopped in his chest, his whole body going cold.

 _Amber._

"N-no… no." Whispered, jagged - the desperation was familiar, and hearing it in Garrett's voice squeezed the breath from Basso's lungs. Familiar. Too familiar. _No._ What? What the fuck was happening? Garrett was panting, hyperventilating as he pressed against the back wall and hugged his knees. The bed shook with his tremors. Basso couldn't breathe at all, but it swirled under his skin and he didn't fucking understand.

He knew that cry, that fear. Basso was no stranger to loss that piercing, but Garrett - as far as Basso knew - had never been close to someone like that. He couldn't afford to be, couldn't afford to have such an open and obvious weakness. People like the Thief-Taker would use it to crush him in a second. So what-

 _"No."_ Half-sobbed, the light still bleeding from Garrett's eye.

"Hey-" Basso's voice shook, but he took a quick, sharp breath (all he could manage) and tried to hold it steady. "Garrett, hey, just… calm down. You're okay. It was just a nightmare." Had to be. Right? It couldn't be anything but a nightmare, because Basso would know if it could be anything else and nothing could have happened in the last hour. Garrett had been perfectly fine yesterday. Daresay… even happy.

Garrett moaned quietly, pained, and then the light pulsed in his eye and he sat bolt upright, leaning forward, breathing open-mouthed like Gwen. There was something urgent in his expression, and for a second Basso was afraid he was going to throw up (again), but it wasn't the same grimaced panic as that. It was… something else. "I… _Jessamine._ "

"It's okay. I'll get you some water, alright? Just hold on a second." The conclusive answer to withdrawal then, Basso tried to reason, and he snagged the bottle and turned back to the desk where they now kept the water jug. Bad shit. Avoid at all costs. For now, he'd settle Garrett down with the dose he missed and discuss it with him that evening. There was movement behind him, sharp and frantic, but Basso kept his eyes on what he was doing. "Sit down, Garrett. You're safe, just-"

Basso turned back with glass in hand, only to find the bed empty. A quick glance around confirmed that Garrett was gone. Slowly, ever so slowly, he set the glass back down on the desk. _Gone. Fucking idiot. It's the middle of the day._ His bow and quiver were gone too. He was armed.

Basso sat down, and Gwen hopped onto him. He stroked her feathers, feeling her start to calm down under the touch. He still felt cold, thoughts spinning - _Amber - no_ \- and Garrett was in The City in broad daylight, armed, and out of his mind. Stronger than he had been - but he wasn't wearing his harness, wasn't even wearing his leathers. They were tucked neatly away on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, folded as little as possible.

His fucking eye was glowing!

There was nothing Basso could do. He'd never catch Garrett, even if he was still recovering and relatively weak. He'd never catch Garrett, and that was if he could even find the man in the first place.

What had he been- Jessamine. That was what he'd said before vanishing, right? What the fuck did a dead Empress have to do with this? It echoed in his head; Basso knew that. What was he missing here?

Slowly, one hand still petting Gwen comfortingly, Basso tugged closer the makeshift notebook Garrett was using to record his experiments and picked up a pen. Ink spots blotted the desk when he dipped it in the inkwell. Petting Gwen, eyes blank, Amber thoughts flooding his mind like the long-awaited end to a drought, Basso started recording what had just happened. The scratching of the pen was mechanical.

Garrett was already gone. There was nothing else Basso could do.

 _Jessamine._ The dagger job. That's what Raven had said the dagger was called. Not the Empress, the job. _The trap._

Silently, he prayed Garrett would at least come back.


End file.
